The Arda Exchange Program
by princess finwe
Summary: Winter Newhall, a qualified physiotherapist, is accepted into the Arda Exchange Program. However, her "working holiday" in Middle-earth doesn't turn out to be the dreamy sojourn she anticipates. When the story doesn't quite go to plan, can she regather the threads and set the heroes of Middle-earth back on track?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 - The very long summer**

 **Notes on this fic are at the bottom of the chapter. Enjoy!**

 **INITIAL DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Arda or any of the characters contained therein. This story is intended for non-commercial purposes andy is not an attempt to take credit for anything created by the marvellous J.R.R. Tolkien himself.**

* * *

 ** _7_ _th_ _January, 2016._**

Winter Newhall felt her stomach twist in anticipation. One finger hovered over the left-click on the mouse. Across the hall, the clock ticked. Measuring time. Crawling.

 _What have you got to lose, really?_

The girl shrugged slightly to herself, eyes scanning over the webpage one last time. She sat half-hunched over the desktop computer, the mouse cursor lingering near the "Submit" button. Brisk footsteps in the hall caused her to jab the mouse before she could change her mind. Seconds later, she read the message on the screen with a mixture of trepidation and relief:

 _Thank you for submitting your application. The Arda Exchange Program is delighted to receive your expression of interest. Should your application pass our first round of screening, one of our assessment officers will be in contact with you via email in the next 7 days._

Winter grimaced slightly, and rose. Well, she'd done it.

"Winter?" came her mother's voice.

"Yeah?" the girl replied, rising and stretching. With one hand, she pushed a thick, lustrous mass of red hair over her left shoulder and turned to greet her parent.

Mrs. Ada Newhall moved forward briskly. She was a tall woman, though her daughter surpassed her by an inch or so in height. Everything about her movement was quick, efficient and purposeful. Like all of her offspring, she had thick, ruddy locks and creamy skin. Observers frequently remarked that Ada Newhall was a mirror image of what her daughter would look like in twenty-odd years. Winter, meeting the grey-blue eyes identical to her own, always considered it a compliment.

"Any luck with job applications?" Ada asked in her crisp, British accent.

Winter gave a half-hearted smile and glanced shiftily at the computer screen. Fortunately, she'd instinctively closed the webpage, and her gaze returned to her mother's.

"I've seen a few things, but it's too early to say. I've gotta wait and hear back from people," she replied vaguely.

Ada, at least, was satisfied by that comment. "I'm glad you're doing something about it," she nodded and patted her daughter's arm. "Sometimes, Winter, you're so unmotivated. If you don't watch out, you'll be fifty and still living at home." Leaving her daughter to process the unintentional barb, Ada smiled and bustled toward the kitchen.

Winter raised an eyebrow to herself after her mother's back was turned.

 _Gee thanks, mum._

Switching the computer monitor and the overhead fan off, Winter slipped out of the study and back to her room. She could hear her mother continuing with dinner preparations. It was hard to reconcile that it was nearly seven o'clock in the evening with the bright sunny sky and stifling heat. Brisbane summers were hot, humid, and long, particularly when her mother refused point-blank to get air-conditioning. Ada's English accent was still as crisp and starched as when she'd migrated to Australia as a seventeen-year-old, but she seemed to relish the heat more than her Queenslander husband.

Winter sighed as she flopped on her bed and stared at the ceiling.

Dinner would be in an hour or so. And Howard would be home, fortunately. Dinnertimes were quiet and dull without Howard. Jeremiah was so busy with his studies that he didn't make for much conversation, and Winter was never really up to the task of initiating any. Her father was usually preoccupied with work, and Ada had long since ceased attempts to interest her husband and children in her studies at the university. Winter knew she ought to care more, but Ada's PhD in Art History seemed duller than ditch water. Besides, Winter had had enough of hearing about study for the foreseeable future. Four years of a physiotherapy degree had made her rather glad to leave the big sandstone columns of the University of Queensland behind her, as beautiful as it was.

She'd graduated just before Christmas the year before. Winter was profoundly glad to wrap up the long study period, move out of her on-campus residential college and prepare for "proper" adulthood.

Sure, she _was_ moving back in with her parents.

 _Ye-es_ , she was a 22-year-old grown woman and didn't have a place of her own.

 _Maybe_ she hadn't ever done her own cooking.

That was all right. She'd learn, she'd get a job as soon as possible, and she'd leave Brisbane's tropical climate far behind her. Yep. That was the plan.

Trouble was, Winter admitted ruefully as she lay on her bed, all of those things required her to exert effort. And effort was in short supply these days, particularly with the hazy summer heat. University was a string of passes. College gee-up events were something to be circumvented. Her mother's lectures were accepted with a nod and negligible action.

She wanted to claim independence and move forward with purpose. Heck, if she could harness the amount of intentionality in her mother's right pinkie finger, Winter was sure she'd get exponentially more done with her free time. As it was, she spent her days half-heartedly researching physiotherapy positions and filling the house with the sound of her banjo. It was enjoyable enough, more enjoyable than the discomfort of uprooting.

 _You applied for the Arda Exchange though, didn't you?_

Winter's stomach lurched and she sat up.

 _Impulse decision_ , she dismissed uncertainly. _Besides, I'll never get it. You have to have more than a casual interest in_ Lord of the Rings _to be accepted to the program._

That was true enough, she assured herself. Still, she wasn't sure if her knowledge of the Tolkien legendarium could quite be called "casual".

 _I can always say no, even if I make it through the initial screening. I never should have applied. A year away from home? In another universe? That was stupid. Mum and Dad'd never let me go either. If I get an email I'll just tell them it was a mistake. Never should've applied… wasting their time, really. But I can tell them that. It'll be fine. No need to tell Mum. She'd have a fit. No. It'll be ok._

Nodding to herself, Winter rose and moved to where the Banjo rested in its stand in the corner of her room. Grasping its neck and settling down with her back against her bedframe, she began to play. She caressed the strings with nimble fingers, and soon a rousing melody joined the steady clicking of the overhead fan.

* * *

"What did you do today, Howard?" smiled Ada, passing the green glass salad bowl across to her eldest son.

Winter turned to her brother as he shrugged in response and began dishing himself out some lettuce. "Not much, Mum. Work was good, got plenty done at the office. That woman in the next cubicle who clicks her pen non-stop is away for a few days, so I got a bit of peace," he grinned good-naturedly, gaze flicking from mother to sister across the table. Both smiled in response.

"That's wonderful, dear," Ada replied, whilst Winter quipped under her breath, "Maybe she's being treated for a repetitive stress injury."

Howard's eyes flicked suspiciously to Winter, and he fought hard to keep from laughing.

"And how's the holidays going, Jem?" he pressed onwards, attempting to distract himself from Winter's quasi-innocent expression.

Both turned to survey the youngest Newhall child, Jeremiah. He would start Year 11 at the end of January. At sixteen, he combined Winter's introverted tendencies with their father's seriousness and usually spent the family mealtimes wearing a slight frown as if he mentally working through a mathematical equation

"Alright," Jeremiah replied after a pause. "Just working through some practice QCS papers."

"What?" laughed Howard. "Already?"

"Well, Howard, you know he's only got about a year and a half till his final exams," Winter put in, innocent as can be. Fortunately, the well-disguised sarcasm was lost on both Jeremiah and Ada, as the latter nodded vigorously.

"Yes, he's preparing in good time, aren't you Jem?" she said proudly.

The boy looked from one to the other of them in slight bewilderment, as if overcome by the number of people addressing him.

"Sure, Mum," he said, spearing a cherry tomato and putting it into his mouth before anyone else could ask him a question.

Howard grinned, seeming to realise that was about all they'd get out of their young brother.

"How're things with Claire?"

All eyes turned to the head of the table. Peter Newhall's deep baritone voice was rarely involved in the mealtime discussions. He had an odd sense of humour, and Winter knew he preferred to sit silently and observe the family dynamic. His twinkling eyes bestowed their approval for Winter's subtle antics, before turning to Howard to answer the question.

"Good," the latter replied, happily. "She's looking forward to the wedding almost as much as I am."

"You ought to have invited her for dinner," Ada chastised him. "It's been far too long since I last saw Claire!"

"Only a few weeks, Mum," Howard reminded her.

"It cannot be only that long, it feels far longer," protested Ada, and Winter marked the contrast between her mother's sharp English and the relaxed Australian dialect of the rest of the family. It was never so obvious as at mealtimes, when they all gathered together.

"She was here for Christmas," protested Howard, with a laugh.

Ada eventually conceded. "I suppose you are right, but she should still come and visit soon, if she can."

A brief silence ensued. Howard met Winter's gaze and grinned. She merely arched her eyebrows in response, spearing some cucumber and a piece of steak on her fork and popping it into her mouth.

"You been applying for jobs, Win?"

Taking her time swallowing, Winter nodded. "Yeah."

"Anything good?"

"I dunno how good any job is when it involves massaging old peoples' backs," she retorted lightly, "but yeah, there are some that look promising."

"In Brissy?"

"Nah, Sydney or Melbourne, mostly. Blame Mum and Dad, they're the one that called me Winter and then planted me in the sub-tropics. I'm itching to head somewhere that's cold for more than a month."

 _Like Gondor. It's cooler there._

 _Stop it._

Howard acknowledged her point. "It is warm up here. It'll be sad not to have you settled nearby, though. Claire and I found a really nice place in Annerley we're hoping to buy after the wedding. We could've done dinners together some nights if you'd been in Brissy."

"Whereabouts in Annerley?" inquired Peter, speaking for an uncharacteristic second time during the meal. Winter allowed her father and brother to branch off from her job-hunt, glad not to be subject to any further questions. She had truly looked at jobs in Sydney or Melbourne, preferring the slightly cooler climates. Still, the Arda Exchange application made her feel rather silly, and she didn't want that to come out mid-meal with her mother present.

Whilst the two men talked real estate, Ada turned to probe Jeremiah a little further on his scholastic endeavours. Winter used the opportunity to finish off her meal, feeling vaguely sympathetic towards her reserved brother as Ada pressed him about past QCS tests and his future aspirations.

 _Leave him be, Mum. Goodness, I didn't know what I wanted to be until I got accepted to physio and just decided to do it. He's sixteen. He'll figure it out._

Jeremiah was looking distinctly uncomfortable, his creamy skin beginning to flush almost as red as his hair. Like Winter, he had a smooth, fair complexion and true orange-red hair, like their mother. Howard had the same ruddy locks, but, along with Peter, sported a dusting of freckles. Their father was the odd one out, his bristly hair being a comparably inconspicuous light red-gold. Winter couldn't count the amount of times they'd been referred to as the Weasley family, perhaps forming the root of her dislike for the _Harry Potter_ series.

"I dunno, Mum," Jeremiah repeated.

"But you've decided to do chemistry, and I _know_ you're interested in science—"

"Yeah, but that might not mean that I wanna do it at uni!"

"Well, you just think on it dear. Winter didn't decide till she was about to complete Year 12 and it was awfully slapdash of her, I thought she'd give up physiotherapy halfway through because it didn't suit her," Ada informed him. "You really don't want to find yourself in the same position, darling."

Winter suppressed an internal flash of annoyance. "I'm happy with what I picked, Mum. Jem'll know when he figures it out. But the beginning of Year 11's a bit early to decide. He'll have more of an idea _after_ he's done some of his subjects in the next year or two."

Jeremiah shot her a look of profound gratefulness for getting him off the hook. Ada remained unconvinced, though her concerns were directed to her daughter instead.

"I still think he ought to be researching things now."

"He's doing QCS papers in the summer holidays. Somehow, I think he'll be right," said Winter, struggling to veil her sarcastic tone.

By this stage, Howard and Peter had concluded their tangent. Howard looked rather surprised by Winter's defense of their younger sibling, whilst Ada seemed a little hurt at her daughter's brusqueness. Grasping for a topic, she turned back to her son.

"Has Claire found a wedding dress, Howard?"

He laughed. "Dunno, Mum. You'll have to ask her; she doesn't tell me all the nitty gritty wedding details. I'm excited, but not _that_ excited that I want to hear about her wedding dress and shoes and earrings."

"I'll send her a text after dinner," Ada smiled. "I'm sure she has one. Claire is such a sweet, organised girl. She'd never leave her dress to the last minute, especially as the wedding's only just—what, a month away?"

"That's still enough time for her to run away to Mexico, Howie," Winter said, with near-perfect seriousness. "Better keep her passport at your place."

"Unless we get sick of your humour—or lack thereof—and _both_ go to Mexico," he teased in return.

Winter grinned. Yes, it was good to have Howard sitting at the table with them, matching her wit. She'd miss him when his visits became less frequent and he shared his own table with Claire. It was hard to dislike Claire, despite the fact that she was taking Howard away from the Newhall table.

 _You'll be leaving soon, too._

 _If I get a job – heck, if I_ apply _for a job. The Arda Exchange doesn't count._

Pushing the slightly unsettled thoughts away, Winter sat in silence as the mealtime conversation wrapped up. After they all cleared away the plates and spent another hour in sipping coffee and nibbling leftover Christmas shortbread, Howard pronounced it time to go.

"Thanks so much for dinner, Mum. It was really good."

"You'll come over again soon?"

"Yeah—"

"I'm here all of this week."

"—I'll be round probably Thursday. And if she has time, I'll get Claire to drop in. She's busy packing up her apartment and wrapping up work at the childcare centre, so I don't see her much—"

"Such a shame…"

"—but I'll message her and tell her you'd be happy to have her over for a cuppa or something."

"That would be lovely," beamed Ada. "We do so love Claire!"

"And she really likes all of you," Howard grinned. "Except this one." He slipped a muscled arm around Winter's shoulders, and his brown eyes twinkled at her. "Who could possibly like you, Win?"

"About as many that like you," she responded sweetly. "So—none."

Howard laughed heartily.

"Really, Winter," admonished Ada, softly, her lips pursed slightly. "Can't—"

"Anyway, seeya Mum," Howard continued, embracing her. "Seeya Dad, seeya Jem," he called down the hall, and two voices called back indistinct responses. "And behave yourself, Win. I'll be back in a few days."

Winter leaned on the veranda rail next to her mother as Howard traipsed down the steps and headed for his car with a last wave.

"I'm so happy for him and Claire," said Ada, softly.

"Me too," Winter replied, and meant it wholeheartedly.

"No sarcasm?"

Winter raised an eyebrow to her mother, who had a teasing look in her eye.

"Nah, I'm not _always_ sarcastic, Mum. Claire's really nice."

"I only hope you find as nice a man," sighed Ada, slipping an arm around Winter's waist. "You're very pretty, dear, and clever, and you'll make a good physiotherapist. But how are you _ever_ to meet a young man when you spend all your time in your room playing the guitar?"

Winter bit her lip to hold back a broad smile. Still, she couldn't resist.

"It's not a guitar, Mum, it's a banjo."

* * *

Winter shifted uncomfortably. Her backside was beginning to grow numb from the time she'd spent sitting, leaning against her bookshelf. The notes of the banjo eventually echoed to silence. She lay the instrument down on the carpet beside her. She'd lost track of the time, and even her well-calloused fingers were beginning to hurt with the amount she'd spent playing.

It had been a boring week. Howard had ducked in and out a couple of times, brightening Winter's existence briefly. Aside from that, she'd spent hours lost in music and other pointless pursuits, hiding in her room to escape Ada's admonishments about her idleness. Her mother, as usual, was never without some form of activity. She drove Jeremiah to the pool every day for swimming training—he was a remarkably good swimmer, despite spending most of the day lost in a textbook—baked, cleaned, visited, exercised, wrote, studied and chastised her lazy daughter as the occasion presented itself. Winter made sure it did not occur more often than could reasonably be avoided.

Still, there was some merit to her mother's disapproval, she admitted, studying her reddened fingertips. Music was an escape, not a productive activity. Not to mention it was beginning to have an adverse effect on her slim, white hands.

 _And you've applied for one job in the last 5 days, even though you've found plenty._

Winter exhaled slowly.

She ought to feel bad about that, she was certain of that much. Somehow, her own lack of motivation failed to inspire much regret.

Nevertheless, lacking anything better to do, she rose stiffly from the soft beige carpet. The banjo was replaced on its music stand, and Winter sat down at her desk. She'd send off her resume to a couple more places before dinner. Yes. That would keep Ada happy. At least then when they all sat down to dinner, without Howard to serve as a distraction, Winter would have a favourable report to give.

 _Thank goodness Dad doesn't bother me at dinnertime,_ she sighed, waiting for her computer to boot up. _I don't really see him much anyway, I 'spose._

Peter Newhall was a nurse, and worked long overnight shifts at the Mater Hospital. He loved his work, but Winter rarely saw him between his unusual hours and their concomitant reclusiveness.

Flicking between webpages, Winter hesitantly opened her email.

 _1 new email message from The Arda Exchange Program._

Winter's heart danced a staccato beat as she opened the email thread.

 _Dear Ms. Newhall,_

 _Congratulations! Your application has been considered and you have been selected to proceed to the second stage in the selection process. You are one of twenty young Australians who have been short-listed for the Arda Exchange Program, and we are delighted to invite you to our interview stage._

 _The interview shall consist of a half-hour appointment with some of our leading program officers, who will discuss with you the nature of an exchange to Middle-earth and assess your suitability to spend a year's time there working in an area relating to your qualification. The interview will consider personal qualities as well as your understanding of Tolkien's legendarium to discover whether you are suitable to venture into Arda…._

Winter scanned over the last part of the email, heart still beating queerly. It was signed by a Bob Griggs from the Arda Exchange Program Committee, and there was a whole paragraph with details about her interview time that she barely took in.

 _I made it through…_

The thought left her rather stunned. She'd started researching the Arda Exchange almost as a joke, when Howard had laughingly suggested it.

 _"Winter, why don't you just become an Elf on that Middle-earth swap program thing now you're done uni? It'd be like your childhood dream, Win!"_

He'd been half-right; it was her childhood dream, though it was more. Even Winter's grown-woman heart still loved the idea of travelling through Middle-earth in person. Two years ago, someone had snuck a camera into the program and leaked a bunch of digital photographs of the Riddermark on Tumblr. They'd received a considerable fine and a scolding from the Committee, though many wanna-be exchange students had not felt so strongly about it. The photographs were all Winter had hoped Rohan would have been.

 _Imagine – you could see that in person._

 _Not necessarily_ , her realist side asserted. _You're on the list of twenty, but they only let in one or two from Australia every year. Your odds of getting in are pretty slim._

Still, staring at the computer screen, Winter couldn't stop her stomach twisting in excitement. Maybe it didn't matter that she hadn't applied for any other physio positions.

 _Well,_ she thought wryly, _at least I'll be able to tell Mum I got a job interview._

* * *

 **Heya folks! Didn't think I'd be back here so soon, introducing a new fanfic... But, here we are.**

 **For those of you who are back because you read Elanor's story, then yay! Welcome. I hope you find as much amusement and pleasure from hearing about Winter. For those of you who are trying out my writing for the first time, I'm also super excited to have you reading this! (And if you would like to read more of my writing, head on over to read _My name is Elanor: Get me out of here!_ ).**

 **I could understand if some of you are silently chastising me for starting Winter's story when I haven't finished Elanor's. The truth is, Elanor's is wrapped up to a reasonably-solid conclusion, though it's not finished. But I haven't left you a cliff-hanger, so rest assured. Right now, I'm struggling to figure out how I can continue the Ravenscroft sisters' story arc. In the meantime, I've decide I will give you a taste of a different story; Winter's.**

 **Winter's story is an attempt to throw a modern girl into Middle-earth, but without her "falling", per say. Winter goes voluntarily, on something I have titled the Arda Exchange Program. This is something I would dearly love to exist, where qualified professionals head into Middle-earth to use their skills and gain experience. Idealistic, I know, but interesting nevertheless. It removes the sudden "oh my goodness I'm panicking here what do I do" element that Elanor had, and I think will create a very different (but hopefully still interesting) plotline.**

 **I would love to hear from you what you all think regarding the opening scenes of Winter's tale.**

 **Again, this story is based around Australian characters. I've always heard to write what you know, and I know Brisbane, so that's how we're going to work it.**

 **Thanks ya'll for reading, and please feel free to leave a review or inbox me about this (or Elanor's story).**

 **Much appreciation,**

 **Finwe. x**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - Developments**

* * *

Winter dusted her hands on her jeans. Actually, "dusted" seemed like a poor description of the action, as her palms were damp with sweat and pressing them against the denim was largely ineffectual. Still, the nervous habit gave her something to do with her shaky hands.

She was sitting on a stiff, doctor's-waiting-room kind of chair, with two young men on her right and a girl at her left. The men were talking quietly and exchanging nervous grins, whilst Winter's only other female companion wore a fixed and rather haughty expression.

Time dragged.

Winter was not an impatient person, but prolonged agitation left her nerves feeling as frayed as Howard's old high school jersey. She wished heartily she'd taken her mother's advice and brought a book.

Seconds later, an immaculately dressed and businesslike woman in her mid-thirties clicked across the waiting room in a pant suit and stilettos. Winter wasn't sure whether to be delighted or terrified at the coming of the messenger.

The woman glanced down at the clipboard she held, showing off perfect winged eyeliner and thick black lashes.

"Miss Newhall?"

 _Oh, that's me._

 _Panic._

"Um, yeah," Winter stammered, her throat partially constricted and making the words come out in a raspy squeak. She glanced self-consciously at the other three young people waiting in the lobby to see if they'd noticed, then turned to face the clipboard-wielding brunette Barbie.

"Mr. Griggs will see you now," Barbie smiled, gesturing back in the direction from which she had entered the lobby. Her genuine expression reassured Winter, who swallowed and attempted to return the smile. Still, she felt exceedingly conspicuous in her leather gladiator sandals, jeans and the cotton floral top as she followed the slender, tailored businesswoman through the office lobby.

The Arda Exchange Program had a floor in an office building in Brisbane's CBD. It was fairly unremarkable as far as buildings went, with a tiled reception area and semi-opaque glass walls dividing the individual offices. Winter was glad she'd braved January's heat and worn jeans; it appeared that the University of Queensland was not the only institution which liked to set its air conditioning units at about 15 Celcius and turn its inhabitants to summertime icicles.

After receiving the email from Mr. Griggs, Winter had recollected her wits and read the information on her interview date. That had led her to arrive promptly at this particular office building at 11am on 20th January, with shaking knees and a maddeningly dry mouth. She'd told her mother she had a job interview – true enough – and escaped before Ada could question her about her attire. She'd figured she should at least look comfortable and like her usual self.

 _What does one wear to an interview about an exchange to Middle-earth, anyway?_

Howard had probed her maddeningly about the prospective job, until Winter had divulged the whole secret. Her brother had been wildly enthusiastic about the idea, not to mention exceedingly smug for having planted it in Winter's mind.

Still, his wholehearted approval made Winter distinctly nervous. She had always openly placed high value on Howard's judgement, and the thought of disappointing him was unpleasant.

 _At least if I don't get picked, Mum might be pleased…_

The Barbie led Winter to an office at the opposite end of the floor. The door bore a plaque saying _Robert Griggs: Head of the Arda Exchange Program Committee_ and was partially ajar. Barbie pushed it wide open and indicated Winter should enter, smiling again.

Feeling like she was being shut in a trap, Winter grinned—though it was probably more of a grimace—and stepped gingerly inside.

Winter's first impression of Mr. Robert Griggs' office was one of never-ending piles of paper. All available surfaces—desk, chair, couch, table, and pouf—were laden with paper stacks. The second thing Winter noticed was that, amidst all of the evidence of dead trees, sat an exceedingly short, stocky man. He was almost completely bald, with a cheery red face and twinkly black eyes. He rose from behind his wall of paper and grinned broadly.

"Miss Newhall! Good to see ya," he cried, holding out a hand which Winter took. This was shaken vigorously. He gestured to the seat in front of his desk. "Please, make yourself comfy."

Winter did so, breathing a sigh of relief that the program committee-member was such a jovial, unintimidating figure. He couldn't be more than five foot five, and even in a very well-cut suit he was rather like a cheery uncle out of an Enid Blyton storybook—with a hearty Aussie accent.

"I was very pleased to receive your application, Miss Newhall," the man beamed. "My name is Mr. Griggs, though I would appreciate it if you would call me 'Bob'. And I'll call you—" his eyes scanned a piece of paper in front of him "—Winter, if you don't mind being a bit informal?"

"No problem," she shrugged, with a smile. It was hard not to smile at Bob, who looked so breathlessly eager that his mouth was perpetually upturned.

"So," he said, placing the sheet of paper down amidst its plethora of cousins and leaning forward. "I guess you're expecting some kind of interview. We've found though, that it's much better for me and you just to have a nice chat rather than any kind of awkward questions. That ok with you?"

"Of course," Winter replied, internally heaving a sigh of relief.

"Great! Let's get into it." He shuffled busily through several piles of paper. "Sorry, Winter, won't be a sec."

She smiled graciously. "No worries."

"Rightio," he said after a moment, extracting a stapled sheaf of pages and plonking it on the barely-clear space in front of him. "Let's get into it. So. Winter. Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself? Start with some really basic stuff, like your family and your high school and your favourite colour," Bob suggested brightly. "Then I'll probe you with a bit more stuff and we'll work up to the serious questions, a'right?"

Winter nodded and swallowed. Her mouth was still irritatingly dry.

"Um, ok, sure. So my parents' names are Ada and Peter Newhall, we live over at Hamilton, on the north side of the city. I have two brothers, Howard and Jeremiah. Jeremiah's sixteen, and Howard's twenty-five… I think. I just finished my degree at UQ last year, studying physiotherapy."

"Where did you go to high school?"

"St. Margaret's."

"Oh, Maggie's!" laughed Bob. "My girls have just started at St. Aidan's. Nice schools, both of 'em, and I guess Aidan's gives Maggie's a run for its money these days, eh?"

"I believe it does," nodded Winter. "What else do you want to know?"

"Favourite colour?"

"Oh. Green."

"Original answer. Nice. Do you have any pets?"

Winter grinned a little sheepishly. "I'm not exactly an animal person."

Bob gave a bark of laughter. "Righto, no pet attachments then. Good stuff. What about hobbies? Got any of those, apart from an unhealthy obsession with Tolkien?" The latter comment seemed to amuse Bob so much that he laughed himself almost to tears. His bald head turned such a vivid red that Winter began to be alarmed before the committee-member gradually caught his breath.

"Oh, god, sorry," he gasped, rubbing his eyes and gradually slowing down in his chuckles. "Gets me every time I use it."

 _Huh._

"No problem," Winter said again. "Um, I play the banjo, and a bit of piano. I also box."

"Like, in-the-ring-fighting-people boxing?"

"No no, I just do it for fitness a few times a week."

"Useful skill, that," Bob said, scribbling something on a sheet of paper and then glancing back up at her with an expectant beam. "What else can you tell me, Winter?"

She grasped desperately for some kind of idiosyncrasy she could share, then shrugged. "I'm not sure what else to tell you," she half-laughed, trying to brush off her own awkwardness.

"That's all right! Not a problem. Ok. So, what if I were to ask you something a bit more personal. Why do you think you'd make a good candidate for an exchange to Middle-earth? Currently we've got a spot open in Gondor, and one up in Dale, near Erebor, for Aussies. The reason your application was forwarded through so quickly was because we're rather short on medically-trained personnel. Physios, like yourself, are useful, because you've got a good understanding of anatomy and could easily slip in amongst the women in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, or something like that. You'd be able to assist in educating some of the others about the make-up of the human body, and you'd be surprised at the amount of physio-related injuries which come in. Dislocations are common, but you'd also have to be adaptable to a variety of conditions. It's not like practicing in Australia, where you'd only be working in your field. You'd have to be prepared to embrace all sorts of scenarios and work that, at times, might seem pretty different to what you trained for. Why do you think, Winter, you'd be a good choice for a job like that? Why should we choose a physio over, say, a doctor?"

Winter blinked several times, taking in the flood of information. She looked at Bob with wide, grey-blue eyes for a moment, then pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"I guess—" she paused, struggling for the balance between confident and cocky. Then she smiled, feeling for the first time at ease in the interview as the world that she loved came to mind. "I guess because my interest in Middle-earth is such a big part of why I applied. Obviously I'm interested in physio, or I never would've gotten through a four-year degree. But, going to Gondor wouldn't purely be for the purpose of practicing physio. I want to experience the storybook world that I grew up reading about and have poured so much time into. I've climbed the stairs to the Citadel so many times in my mind already that I feel like I _know_ Minas Tirith. I've walked the paths of the Shire with Frodo and Bilbo, and I've spent months wandering around Rivendell." She paused and shrugged, laughing a little. "I want to see these places, not just imagine them. Being able to help people with modern medical knowledge would just be an added bonus."

Bob's beaming countenance told Winter she'd given a pleasing answer.

"That's a good way of putting it, I reckon. Now we've already tested your knowledge of Middle-earth as part of the application process, so we don't need to cover that again," he said, glancing down at his desk and flicking through a few more pages. "I can tell you that you received a very good score – not our highest, but," he continued, looking up at her and smiling, "I'm sure you understand that the interview is an important aspect of this program as well. Naturally, we don't want to have to teach our exchange members from scratch, but it is pretty important that we have people who will adapt well to an interdimensional swap."

"Yeah," Winter nodded. "I can understand that."

"Mm. If you are selected, our candidates go through several weeks of training here, as well as several weeks in an 'adjustment zone' after you make the journey to Arda. When you first travel to Arda, you will have limited contact with people – you won't see anyone who aren't a part of the program for a little while. Both of these parts of the training are to help you learn the necessary skills to blend in, as well as to teach you the protocol."

Winter nodded to signal her comprehension.

"And," Bob continued, "you'd also have to get familiar with your new identity, adjust to new living conditions, that sort of thing. We try and give people warning in these interviews so they know what they're in for. Even still, we get people who bail on the program even once they reach the adjustment zone." For the first time in the interview, his face did not wear a benevolent smile. "Do you still want to be considered, Winter?"

Mental images of her mother's disapproval clashed with Howard's encouraging expression.

"Yeah, I do."

* * *

"So, he asked me some more questions about myself, about how I'd handle various situations, and then – well, I came home," Winter finished, with a sigh. Glancing at her brother, she shoved him gently on the shoulder. "But you've gotten me all hyped up, Howie. I was tempted to chuck it in because it was scary and uncomfortable and Mum'd have a _fit_ , but now I desperately wanna go."

Howard merely smiled.

The brother and sister sat in the backyard, enjoying the long summer's evening as they sat side by side on the tree swing. The swing was a broad, wooden seat complete with a back and arms hanging from the Chinese elm. It had watched all three Newhall children grow from babes to tall, long-limbed adults.

"I'm glad you're excited about it, Win. I haven't seen you excited in way too long," said Howard, after a moment, resting his arm along the back of the seat. "You should be. A year in Middle-earth before you settle down to a normal job? Why, I'd've killed for that!"

"I don't think they're after accountants," Winter jibed, her expression playful.

"Don't remind me of my poor career choice," Howard moaned, with a chuckle. He leaned forward and rested his head on his hands, then turned to peer at her with one eye. "Pen-clicking lady was back again today."

Winter laughed mercilessly. "Bet that made for a fun afternoon."

"She didn't stop," her brother sighed, " _all day_."

"Better you than me, Howie," replied Winter, airily. Still, she patted his arm in a mixture of condescension and sympathy, before clambering to her feet. "C'mon, we'd better go help get the table and stuff all set up for dinner."

Taking her proffered hand, Howard rose to join her. Side-by-side, the siblings ambled back towards the house.

"When do you hear from the exchange people?"

"Bob said he'd get onto me by Monday; so what, five days? Gosh, it's gonna be a long weekend," Winter sighed.

"I'll bring Claire over?"

"That would help," she admitted. "At the least, it'll give Mum someone to fuss over. She asked me so many questions about the interview, I don't know quite what to tell her."

Howard paused as they reached the bottom of the stairs which led to the veranda. His brown eyes met Winter's seriously.

"You do have to tell her, Win. She loves you, even if she thinks the idea of swapping over to Arda is a silly idea. She'd be so hurt if you didn't tell her. You will, won't you? And soon?"

Winter swatted at him playfully. "'Course I will."

"Promise?"

She sighed, desperately trying to brush off Howard's solemn expression.

 _Why does he have to be such a good son?_

"Yeah, Howie, I promise."

"Good," he nodded, seeming pleased and beginning to climb the stairs. "I just think it'll turn into a massive family blow-up if you leave it too long."

Winter sighed inaudibly, knowing he was right.

 _And really, the last thing you want is a family blow-up…_

"I know." She clambered up after him. "And you know, I haven't gotten in yet. I may never have to tell her."

Howard nodded as they crossed the veranda together and he held open the sliding screen door.

"Well, in that case," Howard grinned, "you'd better seriously start looking for another job."

* * *

"What are you planning today, Winter?"

Winter turned as her mother entered the kitchen. She was stylishly attired in a waist-hugging, retro dress of a pretty grey-blue. It enhanced the colour of her eyes and contrasted with the red of her hair. Truthfully, Ada Newhall was a beautiful woman, a fact which had not changed as she progressed through her forties. Her features had matured and the vivid colour of her hair had darkened, but little else had changed since her girlhood days.

Her daughter made a conscious effort to smile. "I'm going to drive up Mt. Coot-tha with Abby."

"Oh, that's a good idea! Will you be up there for lunch?" Ada inquired, bustling into the kitchen and eyeing the beginning of Winter's lunch preparations.

"Well, yeah, we were planning on kind of a picnic," she explained helplessly, glancing down at her attempt at peanut-butter sandwiches. The refrigerated spread had stuck to the bread and caused it to tear in places, leaving her handiwork looking rather bedraggled and forlorn.

Ada laughed and patted her daughter's arm. "Alright, then. I've got a pretty quiet Saturday ahead; you go get dressed and I'll make you some chicken and salad rolls. Does that sound good?"

Winter looked at her mother a moment, then smiled her acquiescence. "That would be wonderful, Mum." She slipped her arm around her mother's waist, planted a kiss on the smooth, white cheek, and hurried back to her room.

As she pulled the door shut behind her, Winter felt a pang of guilt.

The previous few days had been tense and difficult. She knew that Ada's admonishments about her inactivity were the root of her motherly affection, but still Winter had barely held herself in check.

 _She just doesn't understand._

That was a fairly common theme in Winter's train of thought. Accomplished, beautiful, driven and bustling Ada seemed about two universes away from her daughter. Howard she could understand, with his firm work ethic and his sense of purpose. He knew what he wanted and he strove to make some sort of difference. Even Jeremiah was easier to fathom. He was certainly quiet and introspective, but he found motivation somewhere.

 _But what am I?_

Ada had often called her a dreamer, but Winter knew it wasn't true. She wasn't the intuitive, lost-in-thought kind of person. She was quiet in large groups, certainly, but she often found herself exasperated with people who wandered off in their imaginations and never found their way back. She was not artistic or particularly brainy, she enjoyed music and science but despised English. She loved fitness and ate whole packets of MnMs at every available opportunity. She was quiet, and loved to be witty both at once.

 _Little wonder Mum doesn't know what to do with me. I can't even really understand myself, with all of these contradictions._

Winter shook herself, realizing she'd stopped just inside her closed bedroom door. She'd just have to try and be more patient with her mother. She frequently caught herself on the verge of a snippy reply to Ada's fairly persistent probing.

 _Not today. She's letting me live at home, and she only does it because she cares. Today, I'll do better._

With that resolution fresh in her mind, Winter pulled open her wardrobe. It promised to be a scorching day, so she selected a light cotton dress that would keep the sun off her pale shoulders. It was a warm, gold-beige colour dotted with flowers, and made her think of the 1940s. She pulled off her pyjamas and donned the dress. After brushing her hair and tying it into a soft ponytail, Winter headed for the bathroom. The door was shut.

"Jem?" she inquired, knocking on it.

Moments later, her brother's sleepy form opened the door.

"What?" he mumbled, rubbing one eye. His face was still damp from washing his face.

"Can I come in?"

Jeremiah merely yawned and stumbled out towards the kitchen.

Winter raised an eyebrow. "Guess that's a yes, then."

She entered the family bathroom and followed her brother's lead, wetting and washing her face. After sponging it dry with a towel, she scrutinized herself in the mirror.

Straight nose. Arched brows. Wide mouth. Creamy, unmarked skin. Brown lashes. Blue-grey eyes.

It was like fate had conspired to assemble her as much like Ada as possible, whilst withholding that precise spark or air which made the latter so beautiful. Considered in elements, Winter was almost her mother's clone, from the thick, slightly wavy hair to her build to the tilt of her nose. When one observed them together, however, Winter knew she was missing something.

Today, however, was not an opportune time for soul-searching and discovery; Abby would be arriving soon to spirit her away to the top of a mountain. After rubbing sunscreen onto her face and applying a liberal coat of mascara, Winter hurried back to the kitchen.

Ada's swift hands had already assembled two generous chicken and salad rolls. As Winter grabbed two apples from the fruit bowl, her mother wrapped them deftly in brown paper and placed them on the bench.

"You'd better take plenty of water too, dear; today is not the sort of day to get dehydrated. And _do_ try and find some shade! You're far too pale to be wandering about in the sun with the UV index so high," she pronounced, accompanying her statements with bustling about the kitchen. Moments later two large bottles of water had joined the sandwiches.

"Thanks, Mum," Winter smiled, bundling it all together and placing it in a small esky.

Ada paused and dried her hands on a tea-towel with a smile. She moved to face her daughter, placing one hand on each shoulder.

"Any word back from your interview, dear?"

Winter paused a moment before speaking, berating herself for the rush of irritation which flooded her at her mother's enquiry.

 _She's got a perfect right to ask…_

"Not yet, Mum," she replied instead, a trifle short.

Ada raised an eyebrow and turned away. "There is no need to snap, so, Winter."

Winter could've kicked herself. Not feeling equal to the task of repairing the damage, she merely sighed and retreated. Abby was on her way, and she had somehow, yet again, managed to incite her mother's disapproval.

 _Well done, Winter._

* * *

"I just don't know what I'm doing, Abs."

Winter closed her eyes, one arm across her face to ward off the glare of the sun which persisted despite their position beneath a tree. She lay on her back upon a plaid picnic rug, her ankles crossed. The remains of the girls' lunch was strewn nearby.

"It's like everything I do is wrong, and I'm always at odds with Mum. Like, we don't seriously fight, but I feel like I'm a bit of a disappointment to her."

"I'm sure that's not true," said Abby Blake, firmly. She was sitting cross-legged near Winter, wearing a white t-shirt, a pair of short overalls and Birkenstocks. Abby was scarcely shorter than her long-limbed friend, but with golden brown skin and blonde hair cropped off near her chin in an attractive bob. She had a thin face which always broke into cheerful smiles, an upturned nose and eyes the colour of the ocean. Abby looked like she'd been born to live on the beach—and did, when university didn't trap her in Brisbane. There was something simple and blunt in the Buderim girl; a surety about herself and the world around her. Abby was sturdy and certain, possessing a level of introspectiveness beyond most 22-year-olds, and an unshakeable calm. The pair had become fast friends living on-campus together, complementing one another in their differences.

Winter rolled over to one side to better eye her companion with a wry glance. "Come on, Mum's basically perfect, and she's always preferred Howard—and Jem."

"No one's perfect," Abby laughed, "though your Mum is fantastic. Her sandwiches are, anyway. She couldn't possibly be disappointed in you though, Win; you've just gone to uni and become a physio! And a good one, I can vouch for that myself. You're also her kid. She's proud of you, I'm sure of it."

Winter groaned melodramatically. "Then what on _earth_ is the problem?"

There was a pause, and Abby's pretty face grew thoughtful. "Miscommunication's probably a big part of it. Maybe what you're reading as disapproval or disappointment is really—something else, I dunno."

"Ever the voice of reason, Abigail Blake," cried Winter, her eyes twinkling. "Go on."

Abby shrugged a little helplessly. "Go on with what?"

"Explain it to me."

"How am I supposed to know? It's you we're talking about!"

"Abby," said Winter, seriously, "I can't even work my own mind out. I've never been someone who had big dreams or aspirations. I feel like I've blundered my way through life doing what seemed to be the right thing, but caring very little. The only thing that's made me even slightly interested of late was—and don't laugh at me, woman—getting that interview for the Arda Exchange. What do you say to _that_? Small wonder Mum's annoyed with me half the time! Oh come on, stop laughing," she protested, as Abby chuckled helplessly and rubbed one eye.

"Sorry," her friend replied, "but you're funny when you get going. I'll be serious now though, if you like. I can understand the Arda thing, seeing as we have watched _The Lord of the Rings_ about ten times in the last four years, and I love it almost as much as you. What's wrong with that? If it makes you excited, that's important, Win. Obviously the stuff you've been doing up till now just isn't your passion!"

"So I should devote my life to pursuing Tolkien?"

"I didn't say that," protested Abby.

"Well what did you say?"

Abby shrugged and scratched the side of a lightly-freckled nose. "Ok, I'm not pretending to be a psychologist here—I'm an OT, remember," she grinned. "Anyway, what I was going to say is this: if going on an Arda exchange is what makes you happy—yes I know, you're not accepted yet—but if that's the thing that makes you excited, then you're on the right track I think. You don't want to get caught in a life where you just do all the necessary things to survive! At least there's _something_ that's getting you pumped, or else I'd be very worried for your mental health," Abby smiled. "So that's a good start. If it doesn't work out, if you don't get picked to go to Middle-earth, then it's just our job to find you something else that you _are_ passionate about. You love music!"

"I do," Winter admitted, "though if I'd suggested to Mum that I study music at the Con, I'd probably have been disowned and thrown out."

Abby leaned in earnestly. "Therein lies your problem! Perhaps your mum is one of those people who likes the idea of their kid having a stable career path. It's a valid thing, a lot of parents are like that—mine aren't, and ironically I chose to be an OT. Doesn't mean you have to follow that idea, though, if you're passionate about music or some such other thing."

"That's true, I guess," said Winter, slowly. "But I think I always avoided doing the things that would annoy Mum like that because I already find it hard enough to make her happy."

"Perhaps," came the gentle reply, "you've felt so pressured to conform to what you're supposed to do that you've lost your passion and drive. So when you talk to your Mum, you feel listless and—directionless, somehow, and that actually makes her more annoyed. From what I've seen, she's got a lot of passion for what she believes in. She's probably confused why you don't seem to care about getting a job as a physio—when the real reason is that it's not what you _love_. You're a good physio, Win, and it's a helpful kind of work, but does that mean it's your life calling? Not necessarily."

Winter allowed Abby's quiet words to sink in. After a moment's silence, she sat up abruptly. Abby was fiddling with a piece of grass, but met her friend's grey-blue eyes.

"How is it you always know exactly how to put something so it makes sense, Abby?"

The latter laughed. "Lucky, I guess."

* * *

 **Sorry about the delay, friends; I kinda lost my muse... but it's back!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 - Last Moments**

* * *

 _2nd February, 2016._

Winter sat on her bedroom floor, looking at the oddments strewn about her. A small suitcase lay open beside her, already half-full with an interesting assortment of goods. It was an unusual packing scene, for aside from one fresh change of clothing and a mini toiletries set, there were no ordinary travel items. Instead, the young Miss Newhall stood amongst a selection of books, jewelry pieces, a few small statuettes, stationery items, photographs and perfume. These were haphazardly placed. Many had been stowed in the suitcase, before being withdrawn and re-examined. Others had been cast aside and then hurriedly retrieved with nostalgic eyes.

 _Who knew that packing one small suitcase of memories could be so hard?_

Still, the disarray brought a smile to her wide mouth. The packing was indicative that her departure was finally drawing near—her departure for lands unknown in the wide lands of Middle-earth.

Less than two weeks ago, Winter had received the fateful phone call from Mr. Robert Griggs informing her that she had been one of two successful applicants for the Arda Exchange Program. Winter's powers of speech had been confined to monosyllables for a good ten minutes after the news. She'd sat there gaping at her hands until Ada Newhall had demanded to know what had happened. At length, Winter had felt equal to the task of explaining, whilst her mother listened in cool silence. To the former's surprise, Ada had accepted the matter with what could only be called equanimity. Following this, it had been necessary to call Howard—causing him to whoop so loudly in excitement that his supervisor had given him a quasi-stern reprimand—and send a series of frantic texts to Abby.

 _And now, in four days' time… you're off._

 _Mm, and no nearer to working out if Mum's furious or sad or apathetic about the whole thing._

She sighed softly. Her mother's behaviour was the only cloud in an otherwise clear sky. Ada had been distant, pleasant, and distinctly icy since Winter had told her the news. Whilst her father and brother greeted the situation with at least mild interest, any attempts to draw Ada into the excitement of planning had been met with polite refusal.

 _Oh well. At least I'll be off soon. Maybe in a year's time, she'll like me better when I come back…_

Shrugging, Winter continued with her packing. There was virtually nothing she could take to Arda, as technology was banned outside the 'adjustment zone'. Really, most stuff was banned outside the 'adjustment zone', as anything modern could compromise the Program. Her few belongings would be left behind once she actually transferred to Minas Tirith. Still, it was comforting to think that there were familiar books and photographs on the Arda side of the portal.

Having reassessed what was already in the suitcase, Winter threw most of it out.

 _What good is a Fox Mulder Pop! figurine when it's just going to sit in storage for months anyway?_

She cast about her room for anything else which could be used to supplement the meagre collection she had finally settled on. There was a stack of photographs, her two favourite Marc Jacobs perfumes, and several treasured books: _Little Women_ , _The Stormlight Archives_ and a book of poems. After a moment, Winter's eyes settled on the tiny banjo sitting on its stand in the corner.

 _I suppose it's out of the question…_

She rose and retrieved it. Scrabbling under her bed, she discovered its small case and slipped it inside. After rearranging her other belongings, she wedged the banjo inside the case and zipped it closed. It fit perfectly.

As she pushed the suitcase to one side and began to gather her other belongings, she heard a gentle tap on her bedroom door.

"Come in!"

Ada entered.

"Oh, hi Mum," Winter said. She smiled uncertainly. "I'm just finishing packing."

Ada nodded, before moving to seat herself in an armchair. Every part of her movement was quiet. Her red hair had been swept up into an elegant French twist, and her face wore an outward façade of calm which did not deceive her daughter. She settled herself gracefully, watching as Winter hastened to pack away all of the oddments she would leave behind.

"What time do you depart on the 6th?" Ada inquired, softly.

"I've got to be at the Exchange Program facility at 3pm, so I was thinking of leaving here just after lunch."

The older woman nodded, but did not move. Heavy silence filled the room. Winter knew she ought to break it, yet struggled mightily to cognize any sort of remark which would be acceptable.

 _What is she…?_

Puzzled but wary lest she appeared unwelcoming, Winter clambered onto her bed and sat cross-legged. Evidently, this provided enough of an invitation for Ada. The latter looked at her daughter with serious grey eyes.

"You are excited about this program, Winter," she said, simply.

"Yeah, Mum," that lady replied. "I really am."

"I was not pleased."

Winter swallowed.

 _Really? Never would've guessed._

"I am very sorry if I have been distant," Ada continued, "as I did not believe that you had made a wise choice. Still, as much as you are my daughter, you are also an adult, and I should not wish to lose you merely because you are choosing a path which I do not support."

Winter nodded slowly. "I know, Mum. I realised it's not necessarily what you'd choose for me. But I'm excited, and—" She took a deep breath, thinking of Abby's advice "—I haven't been this excited about anything in a long time. I'm sure it's the right thing—and really, it's only a year. I'll be back then, with some experience under my belt, and perhaps ready to settle down."

"I should like that very much," her mother admitted, with a musical laugh.

"Mm."

The palpable tension lessened somewhat, Winter leaned back and propped herself up on her hands.

"I—I also ought to have said that I am proud of you," Ada said, at length. Winter's eyes met hers, and she felt rather ashamed of the disbelief she felt at such praise.

"Thanks, Mum," she murmured, embarrassed.

"I should have said that a long time ago, for as foolish as I think a trip to Middle-earth is—you have evidently been chosen from among many applicants, and that—that is an accomplishment, Winter."

The young woman grinned at that. Her mother's back-handed compliments were, more often than not, a source of amusement for her. The sincerity beneath the poorly-conceived phrasing was evident, however. Winter was a thick-skinned individual, preferring to watch the world from a distance with quiet amusement and, often, derision. The opinions of others were to her like white noise. She cared little for their pettiness. Still, she reflected, her mother's admission of feeling was a leap in the right direction.

"Thanks," Winter said again, a little lamely.

"And I shall miss you," Ada concluded, with a wistful smile.

"I'll miss you too. But it is only a year, remember," Winter reminded her. "I'll even be able to Skype occasionally I believe, though we can't expect too much contact. It all depends on what's happening with my duties. I'll be perfectly safe. And, if you'll believe it," she added, with a sardonic grin, "I didn't choose to do this purely because it'll annoy you."

* * *

 _4th February, 2016._

"Do you know when you'll be home, dear?" inquired Ada, peering into the bathroom.

Winter, busily applying mascara, made a noncommittal noise.

"Not sure. We're just doing dinner and drinks at Ahmet's," she managed, pausing in her struggling to keep her eyelashes from clumping.

Ada nodded. "Enjoy yourself, then. And you look nice, dear."

Winter smiled in response as her mother withdrew.

 _Two days._

The lead-up to her departure seemed to crawl. As much as Winter knew she would treasure those final days at home, she was also feverishly anxious to reach the Exchange Program station. It felt as if her spirit had been plugged into an electrical socket, and she buzzed with the thrill of impending adventure.

Still, a casual dinner with her uni friends was certainly an enjoyable way to fill her final days in Brisbane. She loved the Turkish restaurant at Southbank, and it would be a pleasant farewell.

She checked her appearance once more in the mirror. She'd chosen a green dress with a tight waist and a circular skirt which accentuated her fair skin and red hair. The thick, ruddy waves were swept up into a low bun, and she'd applied more than her usual run of make-up. She revelled in the spaghetti straps and hem which ended at her knee, knowing it would not be long until she was confined to far more modest attire. Satisfied that she looked nice, Winter grabbed her handbag and house-keys.

Ada was in the kitchen as she swept past.

"I won't be too late, Mum," she called, striding down the hallway. "But I'll text you if anything changes."

"Have fun," came a distant response.

Grinning, Winter pushed open the screen door and crossed the veranda. It was after six, but the sky was still lit with warm light. It was scarcely ten minutes' walk to the ferry stop, so she set off on foot. She felt as if her feet were accelerated by springs. The balmy breeze tickled her hair and skirt, darting about her playfully. Winter could scarcely stop the smile from tugging at her lips.

 _Why so cheerful?_

 _I suppose… because I feel as if I have at least some direction, and I'm pleased about it_ , she managed, realising the fact was true as it was articulated in her mind. _And because, I suppose, it's rather like realising that I have permission to be rebellious. Well, not rebellious, but to do what I love—and not feel guilty or be dragged over the coals about it by Mum… or anyone else._

That was a liberating thought indeed. Still, her pondering had caused her to slacken her pace. Seeing the ferry approaching the Hamilton stop swiftly, she broke into a jog. Fumbling for her GoCard, she smiled apologetically at the transport worker and swiped on.

The inside of the ferry was largely empty. Without regard for the state of her hair, Winter moved towards the front and found herself a semi-sheltered seat. It was beautiful to feel the wind rushing towards her as the ferry skimmed along the Brisbane River, darting between stops until it neared Southbank.

In the heat of a summer evening, the Parklands were alive with people. Green, leafy trees overhung a walkway which extended along the river from the Cultural Centre down to near the Mater Hospital, where Peter Newhall was on an evening shift at that present moment. The path was a highway for pedestrians, cyclists, joggers and Segway-riders. Winter joined the throng, hastening along past the pool and fake beach to reach the streets behind the Parkland. She passed the beautiful metal arbour, which was a riot of pink blossoms, and stepped quickly down the steps to the pedestrian-dominated Southbank streets. Overhead lights had begun to turn on, casting a pleasant hue over the hustle and pleasant chatter.

Ahmet's was scarcely any distance away, though it took a few minutes to navigate all of the people turned out for a pleasant Thursday evening. As she neared the restaurant, Winter caught sight of Abby. The blonde girl noticed her and waved enthusiastically. She wore a relaxed-fit white linen dress, fastened about the waist with a sash. It had buttons down the front and extended to mid-calf.

"You look great," said Winter, admiringly, embracing her friend. "Are the others here yet?"

"Yep; Josh just went to grab our reservation."

"Sweet."

Abby grinned cheerfully. "You getting excited?"

"So keen," her friend replied, with a laugh. "I'll probably be super homesick as soon as I get there, but I'm enjoying the anticipation at the moment."

"That's good. Oh, there's Lish; that makes all of us."

As Abby spoke, a short figure approached. Alicia Notovny greeted both of the other girls with a hug. Where Winter and Abby were tall and slim, Alicia was stocky and barely over 5 feet. She was Korean and Czech, and possessed a reputation as a beauty with her inky hair, smooth complexion and almond-shaped eyes.

After a rapturous greeting, all three entered the restaurant.

Winter had always loved Ahmet's. She had frequently eaten there with her family, beneath the canopy of draped fabrics. As little as she wished to admit it, she still possessed a child-like fascination with the belly-dancer who weaved in and out of the tables, entertaining the diners. The food, however, provided enough of a reason for her continued patronage of the restaurant. She had a particular predilection for the Turkish pizzas.

Already seated at their reserved table were five others. Greetings were exchanged as the three girls joined them and menus were produced with a flourish by the waiter.

"So, Win! You are moving to Gondor, I hear," said Andrew Kowalski.

"Yeah, something like that," she laughed in response. "Crazy, right?"

"It sounds it," put in a girl with light brown curls. "Though I'll confess I'd be mighty jealous if I got to do the same with _Harry Potter_. So if you find out they've started up a Hogwarts Exchange, let me know."

Winter forced a grin. "Oh, I will, Em."

Emily Black tossed her hair prettily and leaned on the table.

"I'm sure you'll have a great time, though."

"Mm," came Winter's rather stilted reply.

 _If I hear another Potter reference, I swear…_

"When do you leave?" Andrew put in, closing his menu and smiling.

"Saturday after lunch. I can't believe it's so soon!"

"It must be a surreal feeling," he said, then shrugged. "I don't know if it's similar to moving countries, but—"

"Yeah, you get it," laughed Winter. Andrew—or, in fact, Andrzej—had moved to Australia several years ago to study at the University of Queensland. He was not an impassioned person, but Winter knew that he frequently missed the familiar streets of Warsaw. His Polish accent was still fairly strong, but she found that she rather liked the unusual intonation. Andrew had taken a number of introductory health sciences courses with her back in first year, and she had found him to be one of the most intelligent people she'd ever stumbled across.

"And how long will you be away?" Emily asked, twirling her straw in her glass of water.

"A year, at this stage. I think it depends on how well the exchange goes, that kind of thing."

"Cool!"

Winter smiled politely, glad that Andrew also happened to be at her end of the table. Emily was a sweet girl; very affectionate, bubbly and a skilled socialite. She stood in the centre of a vibrant group. Winter often found her sharp sarcasm simply begging to be unleashed on the sometimes-heedless Miss Black, as uncharitable as it was. Emily was occasionally a little thoughtless, but she was kind-hearted and unselfish in drawing in anyone and everyone who needed companionship. Perhaps Winter's greatest frustration with the curly-headed social butterfly was her propensity to flirt with as many people as she made friends. She cringed a little as the other girl fluttered her eyelashes and made a playful remark to Andrew. Ironically, the comment was lost on the Pole; as intelligent as he was, he struggled unceasingly with Australian humour or metaphors.

Winter looked longingly at the other end of the table, where Abby was engaged in unassuming chatter with Alicia, Josh, and two other friends from early UQ days, Anna and Kieran. At that moment, to her profound thankfulness, Josh turned in his chair to their end of the table.

"Hey, guys, what do you think about the prospect of an early election? There's all this talk about a double dissolution," he said, looking unusually delighted by such a mundane prospect.

Winter blinked. "Does an early election increase the likelihood of sane politicians being elected?"

Josh wrinkled his nose, and grinned good-naturedly. "Very funny, Win."

"What is a double dissolution?" Andrew enquired.

Emily and Winter rolled their eyes at one another as Josh's face lit up, and he launched into an articulate description of the Australian election process. The tall, athletic blonde boy was a political science major. To Winter, this merely meant he revelled in concepts which most other university students avoided with alacrity.

Turning to the heated conversation at the end of the table, Winter grinned.

"It was an absolute desecration," Kieran Hunter said, with decisiveness. "I barely made it through the whole movie without wanting to kill myself! Be thankful I'm still here to grace this table!"

"Hey!" protested Abby. "I thought it was fantastic! The acting was!"

Kieran let out an animated groan. " _Come on_ , Abs! I thought you were a girl with a brain!"

"I just can't see anything wrong with it," said that woman, laughing helplessly and accepting the mixed compliment with good grace.

Catching Winter's eye, Kieran gestured expressively. "I'm sure Winter will have sense – what did you think of the new _Star Wars_ , Win?"

Blue-grey eyes mischievous, she gave a nonchalant shrug. "As good as any science fiction movie can manage, I suppose."

"Thus speaks the lofty medieval fantasy reader," scoffed Kieran.

"Perhaps," she replied, calmly, "though I will remind you which of us is getting to visit their favourite fictional place."

Kieran scowled slightly, though his eyes twinkled. "All right, you win," he managed, amidst laughter and jeers from his other companions. Abby chuckled heartily and winked at her ruddy-haired friend.

"Still not as good as _Game of Thrones_ ," put in Josh, having concluded his explanation of the Federal Government to Andrew.

Winter rolled her eyes. "You know nothing, Jon Snow."

"I know that I'm hungry," said Josh, firmly. "Now let's hurry up and order—winter is coming."

* * *

 _6th February, 2016._

Winter placed her small carry-on suitcase onto the marble floor carefully, mindful of the banjo wedged inside. As she glanced up, she met a semi-circle of wistful faces and managed a bolstering smile.

"You all look as if this were my funeral," she chided them.

At this, Howard managed a grin in return.

"Well, you shall be gone a long time, so make sure you contact us whenever possible," said Ada, stepping forward and brushing some non-existent fluff off Winter's shoulders. The girl nodded mutely.

The Newhall family stood within a room reminiscent of bygone days. The floor was polished marble and the walls panelled in a warm oak. Thick, heavy drapes lined the windows and elegant armchairs posed in various clusters about the space. It formed the entrance hall of an exceedingly beautiful brick building some hour and a half north-west of Brisbane. They were not alone, however; across the smooth stone floor stood another family going through much the same ritual. The individual who was the centre of the hugs and advice-giving was a pleasant-looking young man of average height, with neat-combed brown hair.

"I suppose you're too old for me to tell you how to behave," Ada continued, having finished her brushing of Winter's shirt and now studying her teeth for food. "Still, I am sure you will do us proud and treat all of those also engaged in the program with kindness and respect."

"Yes, Mum."

Ada grasped her daughter in a tight—and unexpected—embrace.

"And have fun," she whispered, close to Winter's ear.

"I will."

Ada held her fiercely for a moment, before releasing her daughter's slim form and stepping back. Half a moment later her features were pleasant and composed, and she withdrew in favour of her husband.

Peter pulled Winter close.

"Enjoy yourself, my little firebrand, and learn as much as you can. I can't wait to hear all your stories when you get back."

"I'm sure there'll be lots," Winter laughed, truthfully.

Jeremiah came next. The younger brother surprised Winter by presenting her with a neatly-wrapped brown paper parcel.

"Open it once you get there, or if you get hungry," he said, looking rather pink and staring down at the toes of his Vans. "And have a good time. I'm pretty jealous, but I'll be nearly done school by you get back."

"Maybe you'll be able to go in a few years, Jem."

Jeremiah looked up with a broad smile. "I hope so. Put in a good word for me, Win."

"Shall do." She hugged him a little awkwardly.

Then—Howard.

The broad-shouldered young man ambled slowly forward, a smile on his face. He reached out and punched Winter's shoulder in slow motion.

"Well—good luck, sis," he said, somewhat hoarsely. "I'm so stoked you're going—have a ripper of a time! And I look forward to thrashing you at Monopoly when you get back."

"When you say 'thrashing', do you mean begging me for a loan because you've gone bankrupt? Because I could work with that," said Winter, drawing forth all she had in a concerted effort to be cheery.

"Sure," Howard grinned. "As long as you come back with all your arms and legs."

"I think I'll manage. Look after everyone for me—and I'm sorry I can't be there for you and Claire. If I could've just wrangled another week here before I left—"

"Don't you worry a bit," insisted her brother, with emphasis. "Claire and I both know how important this is to you—and portals to Middle-earth don't open every day! We'll be thinking of you, and we'll Skype you in if we possibly can."

Winter nodded mutely. The pair embraced. After half a minute of staring at toes and clearing throats, a brunette in an immaculate pant-suit entered the lobby. She was the same Barbie-esque figure Winter had met at the interview; the sight of her afforded a kind of wry grin.

"Winter—James—if you would say your final goodbyes and follow me."

Winter's gaze travelled over her small family one last time. They were a rather eccentric bunch, ranging from bashful Jeremiah to his fearless and direct mother. She loved them—always had, despite the misunderstandings with all of them at various times. Still, she was not prepared for the wave of emotion which besieged her as she perused their forlorn faces.

"Bye," she half-choked. As one, the family merged into a great group-hug, with Winter buried in the middle of a sea of red hair. She gave a watery laugh as they withdrew, before stealing a nervous glance in Barbie's direction.

"I really have to go. But I'll miss you all, and I'll keep in contact." She took a deep breath and picked up her suitcase. "I love you guys!"

Half a minute later she was being swept along an equally-elegant corridor in the business-woman's wake. To her right strode the young man, with suspiciously damp-looking eyelashes and a desperate desire to avoid eye contact.

They strode down the hallway, taking several turns, before Barbie paused outside a set of white-painted double doors. She opened them with a flourish and beckoned her two nervous charges inside.

"Welcome to the _real_ headquarters of the Arda Exchange Program."

Winter's eyes widened.

It was rather like walking into NASA HQ. The room contained rows of computers and specialised equipment, behind which sat a small army of people. Many were busily working on some form of computer coding, whilst others were pouring over webpages. A knot to the right-hand side had their ears enveloped in large muffs, and were peering at their screens with unparalleled intensity.

Barbie led them across to the opposite side of the room and down a series of shallow steps. It was rather like a lecture theatre, with the computer operates spread across tiers. At the front of the room were several enormous monitors, showing a spread of images, code and security footage that baffled Winter's brain with its complexity.

 _Well I'll be damned…_

"This is our main centre," Barbie explained, turning to face them both. "I am Genevieve Dicks, and I am one of our Field Operations Management Team. Essentially, I am responsible for a lot of the on-the-ground management which happens when we send you both into Arda."

 _And there I was thinking she was a brainless secretary…_

"Here—" Genevieve gestured to the room "—we have our centre of operations. All of the people working here are highly-experienced technicians. The majority are responsible for the portal management; getting you both through safely to our base on the other side. Others are busy in surveying and monitoring our security, both here and in Middle-earth. It is imperative that our operations are not compromised by individuals in either universe, so we place a strong emphasis on surveillance."

Winter glanced at the stranger beside her; James appeared as overwhelmed as she did. Genevieve was, apparently, well-aware of the thought processes which were likely pouring through her candidates' brains.

"Don't worry too much yet; it's not really integral that you have a full understanding of all these systems. Still, we like to show our exchange program members exactly what is happening behind-the-scenes. It's very easy to assume that the portal transfer is a straightforward process, when in reality these guys have been working overtime to get you two ready to go this afternoon. Make sense?"

Both members of her audience nodded.

"Alright. Well, I'm going to take you both to have a look at the actual transfer site, and then you can come and say hello Mr. Griggs. He will be going through some of the protocol with you both, as we still have several hours before the transfer takes place."

"Cool," Winter managed, with a weak smile.

Genevieve led them out of the operations room. They barely drew a glance from the workers, so busy were they at their tasks.

Winter was not prepared for the butterflies which had taken up residence in her stomach. She was still rather dazed from the brisk farewell to her family and being taken under Genevieve's wing. James still seemed to be struggling to master himself, and proffered no conversation.

 _It's going to be amazing,_ she told herself, firmly. _It always feels awkward at first. Just get through the unfamiliar, and you're going to love it._

"Here's where the magic happens," Genevieve smiled. She had stopped outside an unassuming door several corridors and a flight of stairs away from the control room. It was rather like stepping from a Jane Austen set into _Star Wars_.

The room was entirely constructed from metal. The entrance door led into a glass observation section, filled with various desks and seating for those watching the process. All furnishings were strictly utilitarian. On the other side, the room was empty, save for a tall metal frame which looked rather like a doorway. As futuristic as it looked, there were no frills about the "portal room". The archway had several unlit coloured bulbs along its top, and appeared to be powered by a thick, black cable. This led, upon Winter's closer inspection, to a surprisingly small control desk at the front of the observation section. It had several knobs and dials, but appeared simple enough; one button literally read, " _Open portal"._

"It doesn't look much, I know," said Genevieve, "but you'll see some serious action here in a few hours."

Winter couldn't help muttering under her breath, "Guess we're really just lab rats after all."

James turned to look at her with a half-smile on his face. He was a nice-looking young man, with his neat brown hair and the promise of a broad grin in moments of good-humour. His clothing was ordinary—a Billabong t-shirt, jeans and Cons—and he carried a sizeable backpack. He appeared to be the kind of person that, in ordinary circumstances, Winter would like to befriend.

Before she could follow up on the eye contact, Genevieve had half-chivvied them out of the room.

"We've already kept Mr. Griggs waiting a little while, but I'll take him to you now."

Winter grinned to herself. 'Mr. Griggs' didn't seem one who would be a desperate stickler for punctuality.

* * *

"Just try to relax," smiled a pretty blonde woman with a child-like face. "Your suitcase can't go anywhere; it's strapped on tight. I haven't been through myself, but I'm told it's actually a rather pleasant sensation. Have you got everything you need? Don't have to run for a last-minute bathroom break?"

Winter answered "yes" and "no" to the respective questions, before her attendant stepped back.

"Alright then—good luck, Miss Newhall!"

"Thanks," she murmured, to no one in particular, as the blonde retreated.

She stood in the centre of the portal room. Her ordinary clothes had been covered by a navy-blue jumpsuit, with long sleeves and legs which tucked into her Docs. True to the other woman's word, her little suitcase had been fastened to her back by straps which passed around her torso. She was not precisely sure as to the purpose of the jumpsuit—it was ordinary overall material, hardly protective against extreme heat or cold—but found the effect rather pleasing as she glanced surreptitiously at her reflection in the glass.

 _Weird to think that in fifteen minutes, you'll be in another universe._

 _Mmhmm._

It was just after six o'clock. The afternoon hours had passed with agonising slowness in Bob's office, before they had been collected by Genevieve for their outfitting and transfer.

 _It is imperative that you obey all instructions promptly and correctly,_ Bob's cheery voice echoed in her mind. Even whilst giving serious direction he was ever the jovial uncle-type. _After your transferral via the portal you will be met by team on the other side. They will take you to settle into your rooms. Tomorrow, you will be introduced to your fellow exchange members—there are twenty of you in total. For the next two weeks, you will spend your days in classes learning more of the customs and practices of Middle-earth, as well as our protocol. As you must understand, tact and secrecy are absolutely integral to the success of our program. You have both signed a contract which stipulates that you will abide by our terms, in refraining from doing anything which might expose or harm the Arda Exchange Program's continued existence. I don't believe I need to explain what the consequences of such a breach are—but let's ensure it doesn't happen, shall we? I'm sure you'll both have an excellent time, and I anticipate hearing from you over the course of your exchange. All the best!_

Winter swallowed hard.

She and James stood at the centre of a bustling hive. AEP team members scurried everywhere with harassed expressions. Genevieve was detailing jobs to half a dozen team members in the observation room. Bob was shuffling through forms with, perhaps, the most pained countenance of the lot.

Winter glanced at her companion. James was picking at some dirt under his fingernails. Taking a deep breath, she held out her hand to him. Despite hours spent wandering the complex, they had not directly spoken to one another. Somehow, it felt like acknowledging that James was all she had left by formally introducing herself. Both of their families were gone; they were alone, albeit together. It filled her stomach with an unusual sensation - fear.

"I'm Winter Newhall. From Brisbane," she said, meeting his dark eyes with effort.

He gave a weak smile and shook hands.

"James Thomas. Melbourne."

"Hot summer down there?"

"Pretty warm."

Winter adjusted her suitcase on her back slightly as they relapsed into silence. "Starting to regret some of the things I packed."

"I dunno you can regret it as much as me," he responded, with a grimace at his feet. "Starting to think maybe someone substituted my things for bricks."

Winter laughed, drawing James' gaze.

"Sorry I didn't say hi earlier," he mumbled, after watching her for a moment.

She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I just figured I'd like to know your full name if we're both going to die in hyperspace."

This time, he chuckled.

"So—when'd you first read Tolkien's great works?"

"I'm fairly certain I was eight," said Winter, "though that's not counting the fifteen times Dad read them aloud to me since I was old enough to sit up."

"Pretty standard, then," James grinned. "Where'd you study? _What_ did you study?"

"UQ—physiotherapy."

"Oh, nice," he nodded. "I'm Sydney Uni, actually, and I'm a History and Languages major."

Winter raised a finely-shaped red eyebrow. "Really? I thought they were after all the health-science kids for this."

"Apparently not," James replied, bridling a little at her tone. "Anyway, I'm being sent to Dale—they're after someone to put in amongst the scholars and scribes. Unlike Minas Tirith, the lands around Dale and Laketown have lost a lot of academics, and they're hoping to get someone in there to help with the histories and training of other scribes and scholars."

"That actually sounds amazing," said Winter, intentionally infusing her tone with warmth and enthusiasm. James appeared to relax then, and grinned good-naturedly.

"Yeah; and as we Earth people know a lot about Arda, it makes sense to plant an Exchange student to introduce modern research methods."

"That's really cool. Do you know—"

"Two minutes, people!" barked someone. At that, several large men stepped forward and hustled Winter and James towards the arch.

"When we say, you both need to step through," one of them said, sternly.

Winter nodded. The room's activity rose to fever pitch. Everyone except the two bouncer-like men in uniforms was pouring out of the room into the observation section or the corridor beyond. Winter turned for a last glance at the world behind her.

 _I wonder how long it will be until I get to see a sunset on the Brisbane river… or eat at San Churros… or see my family…_

The last thought elicited an unforeseen burst of tears, which she brushed away roughly. Their attendants appeared mercifully blind to feminine emotions, so Winter took a deep breath and faced the portal. The fear which was building inside her was as foreign as it was distasteful. She had never been a nervous person. Few things brought her anxiety, and she had wandered through life with a large degree of ease tempered by apathy. Now, she felt as if her entire slim frame was alive with electric terror.

"Thirty seconds!" came a voice through a microphone. People began to hasten out of the chamber with renewed energy.

"Ten seconds!"

The room was empty, save for the four of them.

"And _go_!"

Before Winter's eyes, the archway shimmered. No longer was it merely a gap in space, but a corporeal cloud formed within the metal frame. It flickered and flashed, rather like the old fuzzy grey picture when an analog TV wasn't properly tuned in. She took a gulping breath.

"Alright, head on through now," said one of the men. Winter felt a gentle pressure on the back of her suitcase.

 _Breathe in. Breathe out._

It was rather like walking towards flame. Fear thrashed in her chest. Her hands trembled. Feet didn't want to move.

Clear as day, she saw her mother's face before her eyes; saw Ada lift her chin with that determined tilt. Her grey-blue eyes flashed and she tossed her ruddy hair. She was not Ada, nor would she ever be, but they shared one thing in equal measure - pride. Winter gritted her teeth and plunged forward with determined strides. Closing her eyes, she plunged into the writhing mass of light and shade—and was gone.

* * *

 **Chapter 3!**

 **There may be a little interlude in this story, as I am endeavouring to get _My name is Elanor: Get me out of here!_ finished as soon as possible. It was my original baby and is still held dear to my heart. I am only a few chapters off a conclusion, and thought I had best leave Winter off for a short while to make sure Elanor gets finished before my university semester gets truly busy.**

 **I hope you're enjoying Winter, and I hope you will also check out Elanor's fic. Both are rough and imperfect, but I dare to hope that you might enjoy them and escape the world for a little while into Middle-earth.**

 **Best wishes to ya'll - Finwe.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 - The other side**

* * *

Winter stumbled forward several steps. Her breaths shivered in her lungs, and her heart galloped.

Three steps. Four steps. Five.

 _Surely I'm…_

Voices. Her eyes were squeezed desperately shut, but as noise erupted around her she opened them tentatively. There was applause.

Wide grey eyes gazed at the scene around her. She was in a room almost identical to the one she had just departed, though this one was filled with a noisy, eager mass of people. They encircled her, faces bright and hands producing enthusiastic claps which harried her eardrums. A moment later, the noise reached a second crescendo, and a dazed James staggered to join her.

Winter's breathing was tremulous. There were faces, so many faces—and noise! More noise than her mind could cognize. Her head lost its steadiness for a moment, and she teetered to one side.

 _If you pass out in front of all these people, you will never live it down. Get yourself together, Winter Newhall._

Steeling herself with effort, she planted her feet a little more firmly apart and blinked like a dazed possum. James was evidently in a similar predicament. He wobbled too, grasped at Winter's arm briefly, then tumbled forward onto one knee with his hands braced on the floor. Almost immediately the noise quietened, and Winter saw a man shove through the crowd towards them. They had been in the room mere seconds.

"Miss Newhall! Mr Thomas! Forgive me, I should have been forward to greet you. Come out of here, it's far too busy for people newly-transferred."

Winter squinted blearily at the tall figure who had come to rescue them. The man was aiding James to his feet with strong arms, and gestured that Winter should accompany them. She struggled to clear her swimming vision. After several dazed blinks, she took note of a man standing well over six feet, brown hair speckled with grey, and a kind—albeit grizzled—countenance. Seeing that she did not move, he beckoned someone over to join them.

"Gwyn, bring Miss Newhall with us," he said to a short blonde woman, before guiding James through the chattering crowd.

"Come on, dear," smiled Gwyn, slipping an arm around Winter—suitcase and all—and moving firmly toward the distant door. "You're feeling utterly lost, I know. That's normal. Let's just get out of here and get you into bed! You'll feel much better then."

Winter found herself propelled forward with surprising speed. Part of her somnolent brain resented the woman's physical proximity, and she wanted to protest. That was far too much to comprehend, however; words did not come easily.

"Bed—sounds good," she managed, in an alien-sounding voice.

"Yes, bed," Gwyn agreed, steering her around several clusters of people. "Not far now."

As stupefied as she was, Winter realised that she was the object of many cheerfully interested stares as Gwyn chivvied her along. She barely noted her surroundings beyond those kindly, curious faces, though had anyone asked her she would have bespoken vague memories of "heaps of stone or brick or something".

Five minutes and many twists, turns and stairwells later, Winter saw the tall man and James disappear into a doorway. Gwyn led her to the next door, released her long enough to open it, and proceeded to move her inside.

Winter's wits had begun to return to her somewhat on the brief foray through goodness-knew-where. The room they had entered was reasonably spacious, with a sizeable wardrobe in coffee-coloured wood and a four-poster bed in the same timber. Leading out of it was a second door, through which Winter glimpsed a bathroom tiled in white and grey.

"You're not a child, so I won't treat you like one," Gwyn said, opening the wardrobe with a self-confident air and browsing it with quick eyes. "I'll just grab you out some suitable attire; they've already run a nice hot bath for you, so just you get nice and clean, put on your pyjamas—" she plucked out a something cream and folded "—and I'll be back to check you're in bed in about half an hour." Gwyn placed the garments upon the rich blue of the bedspread and smiled.

"Come on, now! I'll help you off with your suitcase. It's late here, so you really had best be in bed as soon as you can, so you're all fresh for tomorrow." The small woman deftly undid the straps which secured Winter's suitcase to her back, placed it rather roughly on the floor, and swept outside.

Cringing with the knowledge that her banjo was in that suitcase, Winter took a deep breath.

 _Not a child, am I? I feel awfully like one!_

She looked about the room— _her_ room, she supposed—with languid eyes. She supposed it was nice. She also supposed she'd like it—tomorrow. For, with abler wits had come a rush of homesickness that made her want to curl up and sob. Before such emotions took hold, she began to fumble with the buttons on her jump suit. Tugging it down, she removed her Docs, then set to work on the clothes beneath. Leaving them in a bedraggled trail from the closed door to the bathroom, she padded naked towards the tub. As Gwyn had said, someone had filled it with steamy water.

With due regard for her recently-befuddled sense of balance, Winter climbed in. Someone had also scented the bathwater with an exotic flowery perfume which was sweet like honey whilst also possessing a certain— _tang_. She sank down until she was covered to her neck in the aromatic, soapy liquid. As pleasant as it was, her eyelids had transitioned from blurry to heavy. She located a towel with ease, and began to dry herself in its cottony folds.

 _Well, it's certainly not primitive by any means,_ she mused, pulling the plug and watching the water drain away. Seeing a huge tub like that filled almost to the brim was both exciting and horrifying; Brisbane had such regular droughts that it was considered luxurious to have more than three inches of bathwater.

 _…_ _wonder… Mum… Jem is probably… wonder where that packet of food he sent went… hope Claire's wedding dress was ready in time…_

Half-finished thoughts died away as she donned the clothes Gwyn had laid out. Without even pausing to wonder what exactly she had put on herself, Winter climbed onto the bed, peeled back the heavy coverlet, and slipped underneath.

Her mind only had time to formulate one phrase before she fell asleep:

 _I'm in Middle-earth._

* * *

Winter would not open her eyes, not yet. Something tugged at her consciousness like a persistent itch. Nothing serious, yet nothing ordinary.

 _Can it be true?_

She had begun to float upwards from the coal-black depths of sleep some time ago. So thoroughly tired as she had been, her eyes had not possessed the energy to flutter and give visual evidence as to her surroundings. Winter's memories were hazy, but she knew; she was in Middle-earth.

Her recollections of the night before were even less vivid than her dreams in the previous weeks, when she had envisaged her arrival in Arda. They were not to be relied upon. Instead, she based her assumption on the peculiar and unidentifiable _queerness_ which prodded her consciousness.

It was not the feeling of being in a strange location, that ordinary sense of the unknown Winter had experienced whilst trotting the globe; nor was it loneliness, per say, though she felt that also. The sensation was as hard to articulate as it was to trace. She found it best to liken it to the hair-prickling unsettledness one felt when one was being watched; unprovable, eerie and enough to case her stomach to flip. Onyx turned to cloud and she passed over the threshold of dreamland into waking.

As her dark lashes batted upwards, her suspicions were confirmed. This was not the airy bedroom of a Hamilton home, looking across the patchwork of skyscrapers. Above her head stretched a heavy canopy attached to her bed's four, looming posts. The blankets atop her were thickly embroidered in a rich denim blue. Glancing down at herself, she saw she was peculiarly attired in a long, ivory nightgown which felt like a caress on her body.

No. This was definitely not home.

Sleep having departed, emotions began to buffet her in contradictory forms and expressions. At once she was besieged by utter joy and jabbing homesickness. With the merry sunlight leaping through her window and the thrill of a new world to explore, joy won. Winter threw off the coverlet and scrambled to look out of the glass windowpane.

Her breath snagged in her lungs as she took in the scene before her.

Her first impression was of height. Before her eyes, the wall plunged downwards for an eternity. The building in which she stood was constructed of pale stone, like the colour of soft parchment. She realised that her room was situated in a sweeping circular tower, an extensive edifice which explained her very great distance from the ground. To the right uncoiled the rest of the building, made of the same pale stone with a roof of greenish tiles. It was of no mean size, yet the tower loomed at least two floors above it. Despite its size, the whole structure was exceptionally beautiful. The roof was accented by crenellations, and a curtain wall branched from the tower to encircle the lower part of the building. Even this useful element had an element of grace in the stone carvings and fluid lines.

Having taken in the fairy-tale turrets and the bailey swarming with people, Winter's eyes became distant. Such an exquisite, elegant castle could scarcely be improved upon, and yet the view managed to surpass it utterly. Winter found herself looking upon a world of dreams, a land of emerald grass which stretched in mellow rolls till it met steeper foothills. Two mountainous arms came out to greet these, all sheer cliffs and snow-capped peaks. They were taller than anything Winter could conceive, having never seen anything loftier than the Glasshouse Mountains. The sky was blue, blue, icy and yet comforting in its familiarity. Clouds lolled across its stretch like plump cherubs in easy chairs.

"Beautiful," she whispered, her breath fogging the glass. The word did not even come close to articulating the sheer majesty she observed.

For several minutes, she continued to drink it in. The longer she looked, the more she came to notice the subtle differences. The grass was finer than the native Queensland varieties, whilst the trees she observed were largely unknown. The pines she recognised, whereas the others were leafless and unidentifiable.

 _I suppose it's ironic_ , she grinned to herself, _that Winter Newhall should arrive in Middle-earth in winter-time…_

Quite pleased with her own joke, she moved away from the window reluctantly. She had no idea of the time, nor of whether she was expected anywhere. Thus, it seemed to her a far better option to enjoy her chambers as long as she could.

Glancing at the bathroom, she was filled with a fresh sense of appreciation she had not been capable of feeling the night before. Indoor plumbing was a mercy.

The next thing which caught her eye was the huge wardrobe, from the depths of which Gwyn had plucked the sleek nightgown she was presently wearing. With a playful smile tugging at her lips, Winter grasped the wrought-iron handles and tugged it open.

 _Like… one of those movies where the heroine gets a makeover and… well… a whole damn wardrobe of clothes…_

Winter's eyes widened.

 _Even_ better _than one of those movies…_

She reached out with one tentative hand to brush the clothes inside. Little wonder that her travel items had been restricted to one tiny suitcase! With her banjo and the handful of other items, she was now fully equipped.

 _And what a wardrobe!_

Her fingers trailed across silks, satins, velvets, cottons and wools. There were shelves holding shirts, trousers, breeches, and underwear; one hanging rack was taken with dresses of ordinary make—though lovely nevertheless—another of the finest quality gowns, and a third holding tunics of every kind. A row of pegs housed a selection of cloaks and coats.

Winter was baffled. It had not occurred to her the details of an outfit for a trip to Middle-earth.

 _And thank goodness they sorted it out for you! Imagine trying to get all of this stuff made and shipped out here!_

She stared at the rows of fabric. Everything was beautiful and, she admitted, would suit her down to a tee. The colours would bring out the vibrancy of her eyes, skin and hair. She paused before what she assumed was a "day" gown of seaweed green, before moving onto a fancier article the colour of cider. It had a square neckline and sleeves that ended by the elbows, stitched in embroidery so fine she could hardly locate the individual threads.

Eighty per cent of the collection seemed too dressed-up for her first day in Middle-earth.

 _I suppose… I suppose I can do what I like with them?_

She lingered on the green "day" dress, and finally removed it from its hanger. At worst, Gwyn or someone equally managerial would demand she change. Until then—Winter wanted to envelope herself in that deep green fabric.

Ten minutes later, Winter twirled in front of the mirror with a great sense of satisfaction. The dress fit her slim frame like a glove, and the novelty of the whole thing lent her a twinkle to the blue-grey eyes.

Just as she finished admiring herself, someone rapped smartly on the door. Wondering if there was any other response she could justifiably give, Winter called: "Come in!"

Gwyn entered.

"Good morning, Miss Newhall! Up and dressed! My, aren't you an excellent person to look after!"

Inwardly bridling from the first instant, Winter forced a smile.

 _Look after? I'm hardly an invalid. Though if you keep on like this, I'll believe myself to be five years old again._

"And you've picked something very appropriate for your first day, well done," Gwyn beamed. "You've got several things to tick off the agenda today, and I've been told to come and prepare you for it," she bustled over and sat in the armchair which rested near one wall. "Sit on the bed, and we'll go through things."

Resisting the urge to smile brightly and say, "I'd rather drown myself in the bath," Winter did as the woman bid. She had still not figured out how a person who could not be more than thirty could make her feel so… childish.

"Alright, sweetie," she continued, producing a notebook with flourish. "So first up, there's a tray of breakfast on its way here as we speak. I thought you'd need something nourishing to get you through the day, you're such a skinny little thing! Anyway, then you're to come down and meet Calaron. You saw him yesterday, but you didn't meet him properly. He's going to go through all of your details and check everything's all good on this end. Following that, you'll go to a meet-and-greet, and then your first protocol class. Got all that?"

Winter blinked once. "Yep. Perfectly."

"Never mind if you don't, dear, that's perfectly normal. And you will be escorted by one of the maids to all of your appointments; you can't get lost." With that, Gwyn rose, flashed another too-broad smile, and bustled toward the door. "Now you just stay there, your breakfast is coming, and then someone will bring you to meet Calaron. Have a lovely day, sweetheart," she cooed, swiftly retreating backwards and closing the door behind her.

After a respectful few seconds had elapsed, Winter burst into chuckles. Something about Gwyn's rounded, bouncy face with its awkward mantle of motherliness made her want to laugh and make caustic remarks at the same time. She was saved from a prolonged fit of giggles by a second rap on her door. Winter half-sighed.

"Come in," she pronounced, for the second time.

* * *

"Calaron is waiting for you, miss," the maidservant curtseyed, before bustling away—and leaving Winter standing in a solitary corridor facing a rather imposing, metal-studded door.

Considering she had been awake barely more than an hour, it was rather like being caught up in a whirlwind. The maid who had produced her breakfast had waited, hawklike, whilst Winter devoured it. Feeling rather like she was being scrutinised for her speed, she had gulped down her meal, before being led hence and deposited like a stray parcel.

 _Ah well, let's get this over with!_

Reaching out tentatively, she rapped upon the wooden surface. Realising that such a soft tap wouldn't carry, she tried again with greater force. This time, a deep male voice replied with, "Enter!"

Winter turned the heavy latch with difficulty.

It felt rather like all Winter had done in the past few days was attend interviews. This, however, was the strangest one of the lot. The room in which she found herself was lavish without being over-ornamented. Much like her bedchambers, it was furnished with dark timber and rich colours; the whole atmosphere of the castle appeared characterised by thick floor rugs, stone and tapestries. Overall, the effect was antiquated and yet extravagant. Placed amidst it all, and looking excessively out of place, however, was a MacBook pro on the desk.

 _Hmm._

"Good morning, Miss Newhall."

Realising her mind had wandered for a good few seconds, Winter's cheeks grew slightly pink.

"Good morning… ah…" She trailed off. Did she call him by his first name? Or was there some honorific title that the maid had mentioned she had overlooked?

"Everyone simply calls me Calaron," he smiled, gently. Winter gave a small nod.

"Good morning, Calaron." The name tasted peculiar.

"Please, sit," he indicated a chair before him. "I can imagine you are feeling rather out of place and confused after everything has gone on." His face creased in a slight smile. "We find that travelling between Earth and Arda is rather like a hangover—best slept off."

Winter couldn't help herself—she laughed. The sound tinkled out, causing the man before her to smile again. She took her seat, sitting very straight.

In the few seconds it took him to press several keys on his laptop and half-close the lid, Winter studied him. He was, as she had observed last night, rather weathered-looking, but with a kindly face and pleasant grey eyes. He also had rather bushy brows, which kind of suited his forty-odd paternal look.

 _I like him._

"Well, let's get started. First off, do you know where you are?"

Winter smiled slyly and touched her jaw in mock confusion. "This _is_ Narnia, right?"

"Got it in one," Calaron chuckled. He rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forward conversationally. "Excellent. Occasionally we get an exchange student who is a little more… disoriented by the journey." He opened a drawer and drew out several sheets of parchment. "Glad to discover your sense of humour was not dented, either."

Winter grinned back, relaxing slightly. "Not at all, sir."

"I suppose I asked for it, calling you Miss Newhall—but it is just plain 'Calaron', here. And you will be Winter."

"Great, because 'Miss Newhall' was making me feel like I was back in high school!"

"All serene; we'll abandon honorific prefixes, shall we? Wonderful. Now, to business."

Winter smiled as Calaron shuffled through several pages. Just as she found Gwyn rather odd and a little repulsive, there was a great deal that she liked about this man. His wit matched her own, and she was sure she could catch the faintest hint of a New Zealand accent in amongst the carefully-schooled enunciations.

"It's all pretty straight-forward. You did the hard yards in terms of paperwork back on the other side, so you're on the downward slope. Your contract is all in order, you've had your briefing on the protocol side of things. Now all you've got ahead is a bit of a chat about the Arda Exchange Program—with yours truly—and… oh, did I mention two weeks of intensive training? Everyone in Minas Tirith should speak English, but it's expected that the nobility also speak the Gondorian dialect of Sindarin. Kind of like a decorum and propriety thing, think weird Jane Austen-esque rituals. I dunno. But you need to learn a satisfactory amount of Sindarin before we confirm you to transfer. After that—four weeks of gradual integration in Minas Tirith."

Winter raised an eyebrow. "This is the downward slope?"

"Oh, naturally." Calaron laughed heartily. "Sorry, I made it sound ten times worse than it is. In the next two weeks, you've got several main tasks. Firstly, I get the exciting job of confirming that you're going to be working in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith. Does that fill you with inexpressible joy?"

"I can barely contain myself."

Their eyes met in a twinkle and Calaron hastened onwards, scratching his chin.

"Brilliant. So essentially, the plan of attack we've gone with for you is this: you will be apprenticed to a healer in the Houses, under the guise of being a lady of moderate rank learning the feminine arts, as your brother is to inherit the estate and your fortunes are not advantageously placed. Following me?"

Winter bobbed her head.

"Great. You'll be consequential enough to get yourself around, but not so much so that you will be noticed. Working in the houses is quite a common thing for noblewomen who are not likely to make a particularly promising marriage, as well as being seen as a very altruistic activity. Helping the poor, that kind of thing. You'll have a new name, and a new identity. Basically, that means that you'll be dividing your time between working in the houses, and having some light socialisation amongst connections we have established through the Program."

"Sounds good."

"Yep, and for that first month you'll be quite firmly under the wing of one of our more permanent Program placements, to ensure that you get comfortable in your role."

Inwardly, Winter sighed a little. The prospect of being tailed and monitored constantly felt rather like a patronising insult to her sense of subtlety. True, it was necessary, but she bridled at the notion of being watched and guided. She was, like her mother, fiercely independent.

 _Goodness, if it's Gwyn…_

"Obviously you've seen your wardrobe—" He waved in her general direction "—and should find that it is entirely appropriate for a woman of your station. When you get to Minas Tirith, we will see you are properly equipped with attire for the Houses of Healing. Aside from your duties and socialising, you will get to be a bit of a tourist." Calaron grinned. "It's not all work and no play! We'll see that you visit some interesting places, you can ride horses if you like, and at certain times you may even get to venture a little further afield. Rohan, even."

Winter's breath caught in her throat and her stomach warmed. This was what she'd dreamed about; she would see Middle-earth.

Calaron smiled at her again. "You seem rather pleased."

She shrugged, unsure how to answer that. Silence hovered above them a moment, and then a question sprang to Winter's mind.

"What year is it?"

"Hey?"

"What year? I presume it's not too close to the War of the Ring, or—"

"Clever; no, though it isn't exactly ages away from the War. It is presently January of 3007. Eleven—"

"Eleven years before the beginning of the Fellowship, yes," Winter finished, with a sunny grin. "Wow. Hard to imagine being that close to the main story arc!"

It was Calaron's turn to shrug. He leaned back in his chair, away from the desk. "Indeed. Anyway, Osgiliath's eastern shore is currently in possession of Gondor, and whilst there are minor skirmishes with the people of Mordor and Ithilien sees some fighting, it is not dangerous. We are able to establish when any major military encounters will be through Tolkien's histories, and help our Exchange Program members to avoid them."

Avoiding wars was something which hadn't really occurred to Winter. She brushed worries aside. The Program officials would hardly throw them into harm's way… and she wouldn't have skipped back through that portal for anything.

"I think that's basically everything of huge import." Calaron re-opened his Mac and glanced at the screen. "It's only ten past ten, so you've got twenty minutes until the meet-and-greet. It's in the Great Hall, which is impossible to miss if you take the stairs downwards and follow the frazzled maids. All of your fellow exchange participants are here now, so its best you all say hi to one another. I just need you to take this booklet with you, as it has procedures for some of our on-the-ground protocols, such as what you can take beyond these walls. You can read it tonight, because you have your first class after lunch."

Winter smiled, desperately squashing the inner voice which screamed protests at the notion of "class". She'd just escaped university, hadn't she?

Realising she was dismissed, she accepted the stapled wad of papers Calaron proffered and made to stand.

"Oh, and one thing I forgot; this castle—" Calaron held his hands outwards "—is called Caoloth. It's Sindarin, and literally was chosen by squashing the words for 'earth' and 'traveller' together. You know, in homage to the fact that people from Earth travel here to—"

Winter held up her hand to stop him. He was wearing a silly grin on his face, and she sighed in amusement. "Ok, ok, very funny." There was a pause and her eyes widened. "Is it actually called that?"

Calaron gave a kind of pained shrug. "Look, it was established before I became the head honcho on this side of things. Nothing I can do about it now—we already got our business cards printed! Though, sometimes bleedingly obvious is best, right?"

"Some might argue that," came Winter's careful reply, tempered by a smile. "Thanks, Calaron."

He nodded. "Anytime, Winter." Pause. "Honestly, you don't know how many people come in this office sprouting out as many Tolkien-related facts as they can to impress me, and instead looking like outright gits. You," he continued with a merry glance, "only brought up one, and that makes you someone I think I can stand. If your family get sick of you, come back here and you can marry my son. We'll plant you here permanently, and you can make wisecracks every morning over coffee."

Winter blinked. Despite the grin which Calaron was struggling to contain, he'd disarmed her fairly effectively and left her gaping. She grasped at the strings of composure.

"Gee, don't mention that within Mum's earshot," came the first reply which occurred to her as she half-exited the room. "She's been trying to marry me off since sixteen, and I think she'd find that too good to pass up!"

* * *

Breathing deep to cool her fiery cheeks, Winter strode away from the door of Calaron's office. The fact that he'd just suggested she marry his son and gotten away with it was largely baffling. She could still hear his hearty laughter echoing as she closed the door.

 _And, if I'm honest, Mum really would want me to have a second think about that offer!_

Grinning slightly at the ridiculousness of it all, she began to flip idly through the papers Calaron had given her. It was, essentially, a thick wad of a booklet which explained how Exchange Program participants were given subtle access to modern conveniences, such as toiletries, whilst they were outside Caoloth. It also explained the extremely well-hidden zippers used to fasten the gown she was wearing.

Not particularly desiring to flick through pages more information—she needed to save mental storage space for learning Sindarin—Winter slowed in her journey downwards from Calaron's office.

The rest of Caoloth— _stupid name, by the way_ —was equally magnificent. Having left the tower part of the castle behind, the ceilings became vaulted and the windows broader. The thickness of the walls created deep window alcoves, and she paused to look out of one. Despite having left the height of her tower room behind, the view was exquisite. As the sun rose in the sky, the colours beneath were heightened to brilliant vibrancy. It was easy to forget home and any twinge of homesickness as her shoes clicked on the stone and sweet sunlight dappled the path before her.

Turning into another corridor, Winter found her first sight of Caoloth's inhabitants. At the far end she could see a doorway leading into a large room, presumably the Great Hall. Directly in front of her, however, were two young men walking in the same direction as she was. Notwithstanding their unusual attire, the one on the left was unmistakeably James.

"James," she called, stepping forward with greater purpose and hoping fervently she wasn't incorrect.

He turned, and smiled at her.

 _Phew._

"Winter, hey!"

James' companion had turned around as well, and she paused in front of them. They were both wearing rich tunics, breeches and boots, and the second young man stood a number of inches taller than James. Where the latter was dark, his friend had sandy-blonde hair which framed a thin face, and blue eyes.

 _Hug? No? Awkward greeting? No handshake either? Ok._

"This is Lachie; he's from Canada."

Winter smiled at the new acquaintance and decided to proffer her hand to shake.

"Hey Lachie."

He took her fingers in his, which were surprisingly rough. "Nice to meet you, Winter."

"Same here." She turned to look between them both. "Are you guys on your way to this gatho?" She indicated the Great Hall with a jerk of her thumb.

Lachie's face broke into a bemused grin. "Gatho? Sorry, James is trying to educate me about Australian terminology, but I'm still learning."

"Gathering," James supplied, with a twinkle.

"Ah, right," nodded Lachie. "Yes. Yes, Winter, we are. Are you coming too?"

She grimaced slightly. "I feel as if its compulsory, so yes. Otherwise, I'd probably be spending my time hunting for the kitchens! The breakfast they brought me was pretty small, and I didn't get to finish it because the maid sat and watched while I ate. If anything's gonna give you indigestion, it's being watched having your breakfast by a prim and proper maid!"

Both James and Lachie laughed at this, and they entered the Dining Hall together.

By this point, there were about another dozen people gathered at one end. In their midst was a short trestle table holding trays of snacks and canapes, which Winter made an immediate beeline for. James and Lachie were not far behind.

"Ugh, I needed this," Winter laughed, devouring a kind of mini pastry with relish and moving onto some pikelets. "Who knew there'd be pikelets in Arda?"

Lachie, holding a pikelet of his own, raised his in salute. "I don't know, but God bless whoever did this."

The three of them withdrew slightly to one side. Winter had no real desire to spend the following hour making fresh acquaintances. She was a generally friendly person, but she also rather liked to retreat within a comfort zone of familiar faces. Meeting new people felt like a concerted effort. True, she'd only known James about a day, and Lachie less; still, it required far less exertion on her part to remain in their company and busy herself with eating strawberries and scones.

"What part of Canada are you from?" Winter inquired of Lachie, after the three had eaten for a minute or two in silence.

Lachie gulped down a generous piece of his fruit bun. "Winnipeg. It's in the centre of Canada, in the province of Manitoba. And yourselves?"

"Brisbane" from Winter, whilst James put in, "Melbourne".

"Opposite ends, then."

Winter nodded. "Any idea where you're headed here in Middle-earth? I'm bound for Minas Tirith, and James is going to Dale."

"Yeah, though I was only confirmed this morning," Lachie said, his boyish face lighting up with exuberance. "I think I'm the only one who got a spot, but I was actually accepted to travel and go work in Rivendell, would you believe it!"

 _Well of all the fortunate, thrice-lucky bastards…_

"Rivendell." James repeated the word with profound disbelief.

"Rivendell," came Lachie's smirking reply. "I know, right? I just got out of medical school, and there was just the one spot for a doctor—with the Elves. I absolutely cannot believe it!"

"Well!" was all Winter could manage, looking helplessly between the two young men. "How'd you get all the luck?"

Lachie shrugged, though he maintained his rather smug expression. "Genetics? Ask Calaron."

 _I wonder_ , mused Winter inwardly as she grabbed some more cake, _whether I'd have gotten to go to Rivendell, if I agree to marry Calaron's son..._ She grinned to herself. _Might be an option worth exploring later!_

* * *

Many hours later, Winter sank into a bath for the second time since her arrival in Middle-earth.

Dusk had fallen over Caoloth like a velvet blanket. Stars dotted the sky like a lavish scattering of diamonds. Arda had different constellations to earth, but they were, nonetheless, beautiful in their rich array. Having grown up in the city where light pollution blotted them out, it was sheer magic to Winter to see such unspoiled splendour.

Tonight, her bath was scented with a different perfume—she had discovered these in a cupboard in her ensuite. The water was warm and sudsy, and she sank down beneath its surface to wet her long, red locks.

There was very little, materially, that Winter could find to be dissatisfied about in that moment. The tiny pocket of Middle-earth that she had seen was absolutely exquisite. Caoloth was magnificent in its structure, and also in the subtle modern conveniences contained therein. Having grouped up with James and Lachie for the meet-and-greet, Winter had joined them in attending the afternoon class, and they had parted after dinner with promises of meeting for breakfast.

She smiled to herself as she lathered up her hair with the shampoo provided. It was rather nice to have some time to herself, she would not hesitate to admit that; everything had rushed past since she had first woken up in a strange bed that morning. The busyness had its merits, however; as she worked the shampoo through her thick hair, her thoughts began to stray.

 _I wonder what the time difference between here and home is… or if there even is one? Because it's what… eight o'clock here? So everyone at home would've eaten, and they'd be watching telly. At least, Dad would, and Mum would be quilting on the couch, and Jem would have his homework with him…_

The picture was warm in its familiarity.

 _And you won't see them doing that for a year now…_

Winter ducked beneath the water's surface. Shampoo foam pooled across the water's surface, and she wiped it from her face as she emerged. Methodically, she reached for a spare bucket and began rinsing her hair with fresh water from the tap. It was as if those simple actions could push aside the nagging feeling of loss.

 _It's literally only been twenty-four hours, and you're already starting to get crazy homesick? Winter! C'mon, you travelled overseas for like two months and you weren't this antsy._

She finished rinsing the shampoo out and began working on conditioner.

 _True, but this is a year. It's a long time._

 _And this is exactly how you felt just before you came. Get it together, Win! It's a year of your young life, and it's a year of experiences. Your family will all be there when you get back, and by then you'll have had an amazing time. Think of what Jem would've given to come!_

Having finished with her hair, Winter nodded and squared her shoulders. She was a fairly private person, veiling her inner thoughts and feelings beneath a layer of blithe humour and sarcasm. It was only in these moments of isolation that any sense of homesickness or loneliness could touch her. In public, she was an impenetrable wall. It was the way things were done in the Newhall family, and very few people were permitted to see the Winter underneath. Abby, for one, always seemed able to get under her defences, and also Howard.

 _Really… what's underneath my skin?_

She stood up in the bath, water dribbling down to splash upon the surface.

 _What's under the person that I am in public?_

 _Goodness, don't tell me this whole Middle-earth thing is a big journey of self-discovery…_

 _And what if it is?_ came the rather defensive reply. _Sometimes it is about finding yourself. It's like Abby said; this Exchange is something that excites me, and… I think I've blocked off stuff like excitement for a long time._

Pause.

 _Because when you get excited, you're likely to be disappointed._

 _…_ _And I've been disappointed a lot._

Rather startled where her internal dialogue had taken her, Winter reached for one of the thick towels and began to dry her fair skin. Somehow, she'd stumbled upon some kind of profound revelation about herself—and she wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

 _I guess I've been disappointed… and felt like a disappointment to Mum…_

 _Gee, regular sob-story, aren't you?_

 _We-ell, no—not exactly. But is it better to be disappointed, or to go around wrapped in a big layer of defensiveness because it hurts too much?_

Images flickered before Winter's eyes, and her face hardened. The pictures caused her stomach to clench, and she shoved them aside.

 _Too private. Too much._

Frustrated with herself, she left the bathroom and began to dress herself with quick, sharp movements. Too many things stung. Perhaps it was better to be soft, and vulnerable, and to let people in to see the "her" underneath—the self that Winter hadn't yet managed to figure out. But that involved dealing with the string of memories that made her ache, and— _I'm not ready._

Thoroughly finished with walking the dangerous territory her introspection had led her to, Winter finished donning her nightgown and moved to the huge four-poster. Grabbing her small suitcase, she placed it on the bed and unzipped its clasps. A shadow of a smile touched her features as she withdrew the banjo and lightly caressed the woodgrain.

For half an hour, Winter played. She tuned the instrument carefully, letting the notes ring out and correcting the pitch with a practised ear. Then her fingers moved confidently across the frets, whilst the other hand drew forth a sweet melody. It felt distractingly loud in the silence of Caoloth as she swept from one piece to another without pause. Realising it was growing later, she let the notes die to silence and reluctantly laid the instrument aside. Even that short period playing soothed her ruffled spirit, and she could almost forget earlier thoughts of vulnerability and fear.

Then there was the rest of her case to explore, the treasures she had packed without any real understanding of how much she would revere them after her transfer to Arda. Out came the books, and the two bottles of perfume. She popped the lid on one and inhaled the home-like fragrance. It seemed a shame to mingle it with the aroma from her bath, so she replaced the lid and laid them on her bedside table. She had also included a stack of printed photographs, and shuffled through them with a pleasant smile. All thoughts of missing home were locked away with an iron will. Still, she enjoyed the sight of her family's faces with unmarred pleasure.

Last from the case was a package wrapped in brown paper. The paper was slightly mussed from being thrown into the suitcase at the Exchange Facility. Winter opened it almost reverentially.

Inside was a goldmine for her tastebuds. There was an assortment of chocolate-coated items from the Noosa Chocolate Factory—Winter set forth on some macadamias and a strawberry with a gasp of pleasure—as well as a couple of Twix bars and some red licorice sticks.

 _Bless Jem!_

She sucked blissfully on the strawberry for a moment, then bit into it to taste the fruit inside. There was not much her little brother missed, despite his silence. Winter grabbed several more chocolate balls before stowing the rest away.

 _All things considered—that wasn't a bad first day at all._

* * *

 **So there you have Winter's first day after her arrival in Middle-earth. I'm helpless grasping at the different aspects of this presently, so bear with me. Still kinda reeling from finishing my other fic ( _My name is Elanor: get me out of here!_ \- feel free to go have a read) so Winter is kinda cathartic. She's very different from Elanor, but it's interesting nevertheless.**

 **Hope you're enjoying this one so far, and if you have any questions regarding the Australianisms in my fics, please feel free to inbox! :) I know I use a lot of them, because I want my stories to have an element of difference in them (and because I do like to write what I know). If what I'm saying is confusing, just ask! I pick cities I know well because that makes it easier to describe and situate my characters.**

 **Hope you're all having great weeks!**

 **Stay classy - Finwe. x**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 - An Australian in Gondor**

* * *

 **24th January, 3007**

Winter grasped her cloak firmly about herself. No matter how well she secured it, the wind always seemed to tug it free. It didn't help that, occasionally, she was required to let go of it with one hand to scramble up tussocky rises or skirt boulders.

She shivered slightly, glad for the thick layers of her shirt, tunic and tights underneath.

 _If there was ever a time,_ she fumed internally, _that I wish Middle-earth had worked out what a simple, zip-up polar-fleece jumper was… it's now._

"All good, Winter?"

Standing upright, she shot a blistering glare in James' direction.

"I'd say she's about as chilly and vindictive as a Winnipeg winter," chimed in Lachie merrily, "but you probably wouldn't get the connection."

Winter arched one eyebrow. "I think I get your meaning well enough. Do you guys have any intention of turning around before I turn into a human icicle?"

The boys looked at each other, grinned, and shook their heads in unison. "Nah," said James, cheerfully.

Harrumphing to herself, Winter did her best to secure the cloak folds about her person. The threesome were a few kilometres away from Caoloth at that moment. Sundays were the allocated day off for the exchange students, and they had decided to make the most of their first weekend by traipsing through the Gondorian countryside. The castle was located in the south of Gondor, situated between Ered Nimrais and the ocean. It stood not far from the River Gilrain, and was quite close to the town of Linhir. Aside from that, the landscape was largely desolate. The mountains were quite a way off, and the proximity to the coast meant that Caoloth's climate was temperate. Even in the depths of January, it still danced several degrees above freezing even at night, and the days were bearable if one rugged up. It was something of a shock for Winter after Brisbane's mid-20 degree winters, and a point of amusement for both James and Lachie. Even the Melbourne boy had a far greater tolerance than Winter for the chilly weather.

"Are you actually likely to have your toes drop off anytime soon?" inquired James mildly, as Winter adjusted her cloak and flipped her thick braid over her shoulder.

"No; I'll be irritable and thoroughly conscious for some hours yet. I normally like walks, but this wind is driving me insane. And, Lachie," she continued, turning to the Canadian with indignation, "I am not seeing this awesome part of the river you talked about!"

"It's another kilometre or so on," the gentleman addressed replied, serenely. "Come on; doesn't your cloak have fastenings?" He indicated the ties which held his and James' cloaks more securely about their person.

Winter glanced at the edges of the cloak. "Nah, I don't. I guess it's like pockets in women's jeans; they figure we don't need 'em."

Shaking herself, she moved forward in the wake of the two boys. At least, in spite of the deficiencies of her cloak, Winter had snug underclothes and sturdy, comfortable boots. They had evidently been made on Earth, and weren't completely unlike her Docs in look and feel.

And, even if she _was_ freezing—the landscape was exquisite. It nearly took her breath away to be doing something as simple as walking across Middle-earth's countryside. Sure, it was mundane, but there was an alien majesty about the far-reaching landscape. Despite her grumbles, Winter couldn't help but admire everything from the clear sky to the heathery grass, utterly unlike anything she'd ever seen in Australia.

"So how are you going with your Sindarin?" inquired Lachie, as Winter drew abreast of the boys.

"Pretty decently. I'm not amazing, though. I pass the requirements, but that's about it."

Lachie nodded. Winter knew, having heard some of his oral classwork, that the Canadian was extremely adept at picking up new languages. Having learned both English and French as a youngster, he was better positioned to pick up a new tongue.

"I'm so glad I don't have to learn Elvish," declared James, with a satisfied smile. "Heck, learning to write with one of those weird quill things is hard enough!"

"Now _that_ I can say I've mastered," Winter grinned.

"I'll say—your writing looks better than Gwyn's!"

Winter's expression changed to a mingled smile and grimace at that. She had been rather irked to discover that Gwyn was in charge of teaching penmanship and runes to all of the exchange students. Even for those, such as James, who didn't need to learn Sindarin, it was still necessary that they all have a good understanding of Tengwar runes or any others that might be used in their locality. Winter had always been adept with pen and ink. It made her rather smug—and also a little disgusted—that she was Gwyn's prize pupil when it came to penning the beautiful runes with a feather quill and ink pot.

"Is it that good?" Lachie asked, surprised.

" _Oh_ yeah," was James' response, which warmed Winter on the inside to a surprising degree. Smiling to herself, she continued to walk with the boys in silence.

The first week in Middle-earth had been… it had been many things. After the deep and rather painful reflections Winter had courted on her first night, she had balled up her negative emotions and thrown them in a corner. Anytime the ghosts had arisen, she had forcibly distracted herself. It hadn't been difficult, with her daily hours packed from sun-up to sun-down. She had her banjo to fall back on, and had even been convinced the night before to bring it to the common room and play a few tunes for the other students.

And then there were James and Lachie.

Somehow, the camaraderie which had formed between the three of them had almost sprung up overnight.

 _What is it about the kinda school-camp vibe thing which makes friendships happen almost instantly?_ she wondered, with a wholesome disregard for grammar.

She glanced across at the boys; James, ordinary in every outward sense, and yet with a quirky sense of humour and square outlook. He was delightfully awkward and honest almost to a fault. Lachie was different—wilier, somehow, just as light-hearted; Winter still struggled to ascertain exactly what the Canadian was thinking. The glints in his blue eyes were difficult to read at times. Still, she had quick eyes, and had begun to pick up on both boys' individual ticks and unconscious indicators.

"Penny for your thoughts, Winter Martha Elizabeth."

 _Another thing—Lachie's impeccable memory._

"If you use all three names," Winter hedged with a coy smile, "I certainly won't tell you."

Lachie, walking in the middle of the trio, gave her a friendly shove, which she returned with equal liveliness.

"Spoil sport."

"Nosy."

"Takes two to tango, you lot," said James, sagely. "Are we close to this river, Lachie?"

"Quite close, I think."

"James," said Winter, with a cheeky glance in Lachie's direction, "we really need to teach this Canuck about the word 'reckon'. It'd spice up his vocabulary like nothing else, he really missed the boat with his education."

"All right, all right," Lachie protested.

"It's a piece of cake, Lachie," Winter assured him.

"Wouldn't be caught dead not understanding it."

"He's barking up the wrong tree, I reckon, James."

"Yeah look, he's not really on the ball."

"Lachie," Winter concluded, "don't give up your day job."

The Canadian stopped mid-stride, and looked between the two of them helplessly. "I understood all of those words, and still somehow manage to be _totally_ confused!"

Winter and James, who had not ceased walking, shouted with laughter. Lachie had to scramble across the tussocks to keep up with them.

"Feeling under the weather, Lach?" jibed James, with quiet slyness.

Lachie didn't dignify him with a response, though Winter thought she heard him mutter something which sounded awfully like, "Crazy Australians!"

The exchange brought a smile to her face.

 _Could almost be with Josh and Andrew again, back home…_

Funnily enough, she'd found it easier to hit it off with the boys on Exchange.

 _Maybe because it was always so light-hearted and fun with the guys. My friendship with Abby, and even with Lish, that was special. We were so close. I dunno that I'll be able to replace them, even in a year._

Then she almost snorted with laughter. _Guess Andrew and Josh wouldn't really like the thought that I was replacing them so easily! If—_

Her thought was cut off abruptly as Lachie's hand grabbed her elbow. Jumping back to her surroundings, Winter's mouth dropped to an o-shape.

 _Wow._

Most of the land about Caoloth was flat and occasionally broken by rocks, with gentle sweeping rises until it rushed to meet Ered Nimrais. The River Gilrain was a silver ribbon which rent the undulating grass. At this particular spot, however, the lowlands had risen in altitude and left the banks jarringly uneven. On the opposite side it was low, flat and sandy. From the direction that the trio approached, however, it ended in a cliff-face.

Having lived near the Border Ranges, Winter was not unfamiliar with mountains and cliffs. Still, this caused her mouth to quirk.

 _Probably because Lachie's from the flattest part of Canada, doesn't know a real hill when he sees one…_

"Isn't it nice?" that gentleman smiled brightly, moving towards the edge and testing it with his foot. "Come on, Win; it's sound. Sit."

She obliged him by plonking herself down on the heathery precipice. James placed himself on her other side.

"Do you like it?" Lachie asked again.

"It's—different."

That was true. The grass beneath her was spongy, and she could feel the rough stone of the cliff beneath her boot heels. A reasonable distance below swirled the river. In this particular place, the River Gilrain had widened to a shallow spur as it curved through the landscape. The water was perfectly clear, completely unlike any of the muddy creeks Winter had observed.

"Sure beats the Brisbane River," James chuckled, causing Winter to swat him over the ears.

"You don't hear me insulting _your_ hideous river, ya Melbournian!"

"Touché."

For several minutes, they sat in uncharacteristic silence. Winter's gaze moved from the quaintness of the country river to the landscape beyond. The drop in the terrain about the river provided a wonderful prospect. Winter didn't think she would ever tire of seeing the countryside, looking like an English storybook with Swiss mountains in the background, and castles of German magnificence.

"You're getting awfully lost in thought today, Miss Newhall."

"Chuck in the honorary prefixes, will ya Lachie?"

Lachie held up his hands in self-defence.

"Well," said James, "I think it looks like I can cross the river to the lower side if I go a bit further north and jump across those stones. Anyone in?"

"If you mean 'in' the river, then no," Lachie replied.

Winter shook her head.

"I'm likely to fall in, and I'm already cold. You're on your own, Jimbo."

James shrugged. "No worries. I'll be back soon." He jumped to his feet and strode off. "At least, if I fall in—no one here has iPhones to video it on!"

Winter and Lachie grinned at one another as his quick footsteps carried him down the rise and further along the riverbank. As James began his attempts at navigating the riverbed, Winter drank in her surroundings with wistful eyes.

"So how are you feeling, Win? Having a good time?"

Winter turned and quirked an eyebrow at her companion, the expression of moments before brushed away in the breeze. Lachie's thin, merry face was atypically serious. She wondered if she'd misheard.

"Absolutely fantastic. What prompted that question?" Her grey eyes attempted to pierce his mind.

"No reason," shrugged Lachie, grinning lopsidedly. "I just find it hard to tell with you."

"Thanks, Dr. Phil."

He elbowed her gently in the ribs. "That's what I mean, you—you're the funniest person."

"I'm not seeing a problem here," Winter replied, flashing her wide, even smile. She ran her eyes up and down his face, feeling a pang of uneasiness at his— _sincerity_. "C'mon, Lach. We've known each other a week. We're in _Middle-earth_ for goodness's sake! You're getting all deep and meaningful on me! That's not supposed to happen until at _least_ the third week, and even then, we talk about our dreams and aspirations—not _how I'm going_." She grinned again.

"How about I ask you in another fortnight then?" He reached up to scratch his jawline, eyes still rather serious.

Winter held up an imaginary schooner of beer for a toast. "I'll hold you to that, Lachlan."

He chuckled. "But you're enjoying—" He paused, then waved his arms expressively "—this?"

"Hell yeah!" Winter nodded, emphatically. "Everything I'd hoped for. And this whole 'study' stage, it's better than I expected. The food's great—oh, and you guys aren't half bad."

"I'll take that as a profound compliment."

"Good," she grinned once more, "because that's as close as you're gonna get."

* * *

"Winter!"

Winter's fingers halted on the strings of her banjo. The notes rang out mid-chord, and her countenance settled into a petulant frown as footsteps clattered toward the common room door.

"Winter?" came the second call.

"In here, Jimmy," she sighed, plucking a few mournful notes on her instrument and waiting for the one who sought her. A second later, James clattered into the common room. As the days slipped by, she'd finally stopped being surprised at seeing people in the traditional Gondorian attire.

"Oh, there you are," he puffed. "Sorry, I've been looking for ages, and then I was following the sound of the banjo. You'd be surprised how hard it is to tell the direction it's coming from in this echoey place." He punctuated every few words with a gasp for breath.

Winter merely quirked an eyebrow. "Hmm." She waited a moment whilst James caught his breath and leaned against the door frame. One of her slender fingers ran up and down the bridge of her noise in mild annoyance. "What's up?"

He held up a finger, _wait_ , then moved to join her on one of the sofas. The common room for the students was a long, L-shaped room scattered with rugs, comfortable chairs and a gargantuan hearth. As little as Winter liked admitting it, the room reminded her of the Gryffindor common room from _Harry Potter_ the time Emily had beguiled her into watching the fourth movie in second-year.

James finally appeared to have gathered his wits. "Geez, sorry, I've been traipsing about everywhere looking for you. Calaron's doing swordsmanship demonstrations with some of the guys down in the bailey, and I thought you'd wanna watch."

Winter laughed merrily, the peevishness on her countenance dissipating. "You ran _all the way up_ to tell me that?"

"Yes," came James' indignant reply. "Are you coming or not?"

She sprang to her feet and offered a hand to him. He accepted gratefully and she tugged him upright. "Of course. I missed the last one. Thanks for coming to get me—I'll just chuck this back in my room. Meet ya at the top of the stairs!"

James grunted incoherently as Winter fled, banjo in hand. The common room was about halfway up the squat tower of Caoloth, one floor below James's and Winter's bedrooms. She leapt up the stairs two at a time, skidded around the corner and deposited her banjo on her bed with distinct reverence. Half a moment later she was back on the lower floor, and nearly cannoned into James as he stood at the head of the stairs waiting.

"Alright, let's go," she half-sang, grabbing his arm. They bumbled down together.

"So who's sparring, exactly?" Winter inquired.

"Calaron's got a few of the guys out there. I'm supposed to have a go a bit later too, but I had time to sneak up and get you. Hurry up though, or they'll wonder where I went! Lachie's covering for me."

Winter nodded wordlessly as they increased their pace to a half jog, winding down several stairwells and finally emerging in the bailey between the main building and the curtain wall. A little distance away stood a knot of figures, mostly male but with a few girls thrown in.

Because her exchange position was that of a lady, Winter had been disappointed to discover that combat was not part of her induction program. It was not common practice for women in Gondor to learn to wield a sword; some might dabble in archery, but Calaron had decided that Winter's musical skill was an excellent justification for not having learned to fight. Thus, she was excluded from the sparring sessions considered necessary for both James and Lachie. They had some distance to travel, and the program believed it better that they both appear at least mildly proficient with weapons. They would not be expected to fight, but a man in Dale or on the road to Rivendell who appeared awkward with a knife was easy prey.

As Winter and James scurried forward, Calaron was doing a slow-motion demonstration with a dark-haired boy they did not know. The pair slipped in at the back, where Lachie shot them a rather relieved smile.

"Good, you found her. Ready to watch Calaron whip us all into shape?" he said, with his ready grin.

Winter pressed her lips together in an attempt at primness. "Certainly."

"Alright, Kade, that's enough," said Calaron, a minute later. "Where's Lachlan? It's your turn."

Shooting them an apprehensive look, Lachie brushed through the group. "Here, sir."

"Excellent," said Calaron, tossing him a wooden practice sword and moving back several paces. "We're just going through some standard drills today. I will sweep at you—slowly, to begin with—and you need to try and remember the different movements we were practicing to help you parry. And Lachlan," he added, twinkled, "if you see an opportunity to give me a nice poke—take it."

"Yes, sir," said Lachie, taking up a stance and holding the practice sword at the ready.

"Let's get at it then!"

The next five minutes dismantled any romantic ideas Winter had about swordplay. Lachie was athletic, nimble-footed and well-muscled from years playing hockey and running track. Still, the display of swordsmanship left much to be desired, in Winter's mind.

 _Did you expect it to be just like the movies?_ laughed her inner voice.

 _No,_ she flashed, _but I did expect them to be a_ bit _better than this!_

Lachie did reasonably well; he parried all of Calaron's gentle thrusts capably. Given years more practice, Winter supposed he would make quite a good swordsman. His athleticism and hand-eye coordination certainly lent itself to swordplay, but Winter's mind wandered as the steady movements grew dull. As Lachie began to tire, Calaron increased his hits in intensity until he managed to disarm the Canadian boy with a clever flick of his weapon. The wooden sword clattered to the ground.

"Well done, Lachlan," Calaron said, approval evident in every line of his face. "You'd still die quicker than I could say 'Silmarillion' on a battlefield, but at least you won't look like a total novice holding the hilt of a sword."

Lachie took the backhanded compliment with good grace, and retrieved the wooden sword for the "head honcho" of Caoloth—Winter was still to discover precisely what Calaron's title was. It didn't help that he seemed rather evasive about his precise role.

"Who's next? James?"

The dark-eyed boy grimaced as Lachie rejoined them. "Guess I'm in, boots and all!"

As he moved to face Calaron on the sparring grounds, Lachie frowned.

"What does 'boots and all' mean?"

Winter, rather disappointed by the mundaneness of the sparring practice, grinned upwards at her sandy-haired friend. "It's kinda like saying he's going to do it wholeheartedly."

"Ah. Right."

James' bout with Calaron ended more swiftly than Lachie's, and he re-joined them. "Finding this interesting, Win?"

She schooled her face into a bright-eyed expression. "Yeah, it's cool. Sure beats doing nothing."

"You weren't doing nothing—you were playing banjo!"

"Oh," nodded Winter, with a knowing smile. "I was really supposed to be spending the entire afternoon session on etiquette and Gondorian customs. Seeing as I'm one of only two people going to Gondor, they don't run official classes for us. And the other guy's not even going to Minas Tirith—he's off to Dol Amroth, west of here."

A third combatant faced off against Calaron. The threesome watched with largely unseeing eyes.

"So what're you gonna do when you get to Minas Tirith and you have absolutely no clue about how to follow the customs?" needled James.

Winter flicked the top of his ear, causing him to stifle a yelp. Several people nearby turned to look at them, and Winter feigned innocence as James scowled and rubbed his ear.

"What was that for?" he hissed.

Winter shrugged. "I did actually _do_ the culture and customs work; I just did it much quicker than they anticipated, and was having some well-deserved time with my banjo. So stop standing there looking like a stunned mullet."

James acceded to that with reasonably good grace. Lachie merely frowned in a pained fashion.

"A stunned mullet?"

The Australians exchanged wordless smiles and fixated their attention on Calaron's demonstrations once again.

"That will be all for today," the man was saying, taking the practice sword from his last partner and nodding to them all. "You're free to go."

"And done for the day," sighed James in satisfaction, rubbing his arms. "Can we go inside? It's a bit chilly in the wind, now I've broken a sweat."

Winter nodded. It was a fairly temperate day for early February, but she had forgotten to rug up in her flurry to get downstairs and observe the swordplay. "Mm, let's go play cards or something until dinner."

They turned to leave amongst the stragglers from the weapons class. As they ambled off, a gravelly voice called out, "Winter!"

 _Am I at_ everyone's _beck and call today?_

She turned to see Calaron gesturing that she join him.

"Guess I'll see you in the common room, guys."

James and Lachie nodded, before moving off and leaving her to speak with Calaron. The man was frowning.

"I did not realise you were assigned to this class, Winter."

She brought forth her sunniest smile. "Oh, I'm not," she said, by way of explanation. "I just came down because I was interested in watching—and I'd finished my classwork," she added, a little hurriedly.

Calaron studied her with his kind grey eyes, before a grin tugged at his mouth. "Wanted to observe your athletic young friends?"

"Not really," replied she, airily. "I just haven't ever seen people sparring with swords in real life. It seemed interesting."

"That it is, though you won't need it."

"That's all right, I think I have enough to learn besides that."

"Wise words, miss," laughed Calaron, gesturing towards the keep. "Come on inside, you look chilly despite your warm hair." Winter raised her eyebrows, but made no comment as she fell into step beside Caoloth's master. She was well-accustomed to comments about her flaming hair, and couldn't find any real reason to get offended at Calaron's well-meant comment.

"How are you finding life in Middle-earth thus far, anyway?" he inquired warmly.

For a moment, Winter's face was lit with pure enjoyment. Ordinarily, there was something sly or mysterious in her gaze even when it was broken by smiles. For an observer, it felt rather like Winter Newhall could be laughing at them heartily beneath the surface, and it was impossible to tell if such a premonition were true. She had masterful control of her features, and sharp remarks bespoke a clever mind. Very few were privy to the thoughts which dwelt there. And yet, when Calaron introduced the topic of Arda, she was something else entirely—earnest, lively, bright, excited, transparent. All traces of her usual sardonic, teasing self or clever machinations were lost.

"It's wonderful." _Too simple._ She shrugged a little helplessly at the inadequacy of her comment, but Calaron smiled as if he understood perfectly.

"I could barely describe the feeling when I first came here, either," he chuckled. "Was like being walloped with a mallet and thrown into your dreams all at once."

"Your dreams sound rather unpleasant!"

He laughed; a deep, rolling sound.

"Not ordinarily. But I am glad you're enjoying it; and I believe you will find Minas Tirith to your liking as well." They walked several steps in silence, and he held open the door as they entered. "How are your studies going? Your masters tell me many things."

"All bad, I hope?"

"Not entirely," he teased in return.

"Pray, tell me!"

They turned a corridor. Once more, Winter wore an expression of sardonic amusement.

"Oh, that you are a bright girl, learn things quickly, avoid additional work wherever possible, and leave your entire class in uproar."

Winter held up her hands as if to ward off admirers. "Just as I'd hoped."

Calaron shook his head, though he did not manage to wipe the amusement from his face. "You're also insubordinate, did I mention that?"

"No," she replied, innocently, as they reached a stairwell and began to climb. "But you must notice that I'm only insubordinate enough to be witty; never enough to punish. It's an art form, really."

"Clever girl," Calaron half-scolded. "Glad to hear everything's to your satisfaction, though. If you keep it up, you should be out of here with the first lot of Exchange students. Go on, find your friends." He made as if to swat her away. She grinned and turned towards the common room, whilst he continued to climb.

* * *

Three weeks into her time in Middle-earth, Winter video-called her family.

Buried deep in Caoloth's cellars was a computer lab with a wired connection to Earth. It was not continually available, as maintaining the connection required vast amounts of power through the use of the portal.

Having been assigned her "Skype" time earlier that week, Winter was escorted downstairs by a prim member of Calaron's staff. They descended innumerable flights of stairs before arriving in a metal-lined room strewn with thick cabling and containing two old-school computers with fat monitors. The proper maidservant had indicated which one Winter should take, and then departed.

It was several minutes before the call initiated. In the interlude, Winter rubbed one earlobe, absently fiddling with the pearl earring which pierced it. Her stomach was roiling slowly.

The phone call itself consisted of squeals and feverish inquiries about happenings at both ends of the wire. Her parents, Jeremiah, Howard and Claire all crowded into the picture, and Winter's face ached from smiling. Nothing of importance was said; assurances given, laughs faded to silence. Twenty minutes later the screen was blank and Winter sat on her chair feeling like a husk.

"I'll take you upstairs, miss," said the stiffly-starched maid, pressing several buttons on the computer and departing with barely a backward glance. Winter, a little dazed, realised she was supposed to follow.

She barely registered that she was back at her chambers until a passing steward's footsteps jerked her back to reality. Flushing a blotchy pink, she fumbled with the handle and retreated to the sanctity of her bedroom.

She was vulnerable. Naked.

Winter despised feeling exposed. Flustered, she snatched up her banjo and sat cross-legged on her bed. Her face was fixed in a wooden mask of neutrality as her fingers took up a pose and began to dance across the strings. Music rang out; stilted, strained, forceful. Her hands stumbled, the discordance causing her to wince and cease. She could almost hear the reproach from her instrument as the notes faded.

 _We were doing so well…_

Her carefully-cultivated calm was distinctly ruffled. Homesickness blended with a feeling of slippery listlessness. She could not shake it, even as she drove her thoughts elsewhere—to the possibility of a walk that afternoon with James and Lachie, to her upcoming proficiency assessments, to the dance planned amongst the students for later in the week. Rising, she went to stand by the window. Her hot face welcomed the icy touch of the glass.

 _Why—_

Someone rapped on her door. Rubbing her nose in aggravation, she crossed the room in long strides and tugged the door open abruptly. Lachie, standing on the threshold, blinked in surprise at her welcome—or lack thereof. Winter's scowl faded in shame at her hasty reaction to her friend.

"Oh. Hi." She swallowed, snatching at a smile. "Whatcha up to?"

Lachie narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Nothing. Can I come in?"

 _Ugh, Lachie. Your timing could use some work._

"Sure."

 _Distraction. He's a distraction._

Winter turned her back to him, moving stiffly toward the bed and attempting to smooth out the covers. Her banjo she put aside. When she braved facing him again, she was wearing an amiable expression—and he was watching her with confusion and concern.

 _Ah, nuts._

She half-sat on the edge of the bed.

"So," came her attempt at conversation.

Lachie's hands curled restlessly on his knees, moving impatiently as if he didn't know what to do with himself. Awkward—and unusual. He smiled slightly and silence reigned. Finally, he rubbed his chin.

"Everything ok?"

Winter grinned widely, even managing to manufacture a twinkle.

"Yep. You?"

"You don't seem yourself."

 _Bit presumptuous, aren't you?_

Her eyes glinted a warning that Abby would have recognised immediately. The young man was not so lucky. "I'm fine, Lachie. Just tired."

"Tired?" he repeated, frowning. "You went to bed at like, nine, last night!" He leaned forward in the armchair. "Win—"

Winter gritted her teeth.

 _Don't. Don't do it. He's an innocent meddler. Avoid._

"—you looked ready to kill me when I came in. What's going on?"

Winter's countenance was brittle with sarcasm. "Don't know when to quit, do you?"

"No," came his reply, without apology. Rather, lines of annoyance broke his ordinarily merry countenance.

She blinked.

"You're impossible," he continued, in wry frustration.

"I do my best."

Hating the feel of his blue eyes on her face, she got up and returned to her position by the window.

 _I'd give my right arm for Abby right now, to talk this through with._

 _She won't be attached to your hip forever. Work it out yourself._

 _Wow_ thanks _, that's super helpful._

 _Anytime._

Winter's eyes fell to the windowsill, and she traced aimless shapes on the cool stone. Lachie made no sound, and she willed him to leave. Her fingers caressed the texture of the rock, moving between the individual stones and the rough grout.

 _What's wrong with me? Why is it that everything is fine, then I see my family again and my whole brain gets muddled?_

Lachie's footfalls were light upon the carpet. Still, Winter tensed as he approached. He was perilously close to facing the wrath of her unguarded tongue.

His hand brushed her arm and she flinched.

"Sorry," he mumbled, and seeing his face she was stabbed with benevolence. Winter reached out and touched his forearm in response.

"S'ok." She drew a deep breath, moderately annoyed at him for disarming her with his kindness. She despised philanthropy, and especially pity. Apathy had been her friend since childhood; the straightforward and kind gaze of the young man near her right hand stirred indignation in her chest.

"Well it has been a fortnight," he chided gently, "and you _did_ say I could ask you how you were doing in a fortnight."

Winter gave an involuntary bark of laughter. "Fair call."

Their arms brushed as they stood in silence for half a moment. Winter was still fiercely resistant. She should've seen it coming; from the first week the perceptive young man had seemed to slide beneath her defences and stare at her soul in the most uncomfortable manner. It filled her with frustration, and despite that she couldn't help but like him.

 _Still… This has to stop, this soul-searching business…_

Taking a deep breath, Winter turned slightly so her body was angled towards Lachie.

"I'm ok, Lach. Homesick, but fine." She schooled her features into a wide-eyed expression, before glancing down and chewing on her lip demurely. "Thanks for checking in, though." She smiled back up at him in her best approximation of innocence.

The look of empathy which he wore made her groan internally, but she'd take it.

"That's normal, I think," Lachie smiled softly. Tentatively, he reached out with his left arm to pull her in against his side.

Winter complied with no outward show of reluctance. Her arms went about his waist, and she pressed close. She could feel the firmness of his torso beneath the fabric of his tunic, whilst his practiced arms encircled her shoulders. His breath was warm just above her left ear and the smell of his cologne was beguiling. Winter bit her lip as her face buried against him.

 _Don't fall. Don't fall for it._ She clung to the mantra. Lachie was dangerous; too perceptive, too kind. It hurt, and made her uneasy. She needed to keep him at arm's length—figuratively, at least. If a perceived capitulation worked… well, it worked. Let him believe she was just homesick, at least until she escaped to Minas Tirith.

 _And look, hugging him has his advantages_ , came a smug voice. He was all muscle and musky scents.

 _Careful… you've known him what, three weeks?_

She tensed slightly as one of his hands began to move across her shoulder blades in a soothing, rhythmic pattern. The caress caused her stomach to clench.

 _No no no, Lachie. No. Don't you dare get all—_

She moved back away from him as inconspicuously as she could.

"Thanks," Winter half-smiled. Lachie returned the gesture. One of his hands still rested on her shoulder, and he squeezed it affectionately.

"Always here if you need, Win."

 _Look, I'm not gonna complain about hugging you—but get rid of that glint in your eye, Lachlan Howes. If you fall for me, I'll dodge and let you plummet past._

Instead of voicing that thought, she smiled. "Thanks."

He released her shoulder then, and relocated his gaze to the view outside the window. Internally, Winter relaxed with his withdrawal.

 _Gosh…_

Whatever pang of guilt she felt at deceiving the straightforward Canadian boy was lost in relief. Even that feeling dissipated as he turned to her once more, bemused.

"Now I remembered what I came for. Just before, James told me I had 'a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock'. I just wanted to know… what does that mean?"

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTES**

 **The next instalment is there for you!**

 **I realise this wasn't a very Middle-earth focused chapter, but I feel it's necessary to build up some of the characters and relationship before we actually get into sight-seeing in Gondor. It's important that Winter gets settled in at Caoloth and builds some friendships before she moves directly onwards.**

 **If you're expecting this to be a simple "ship" fic, you may as well tap out now. I don't want this story to be one of those "girl-meets-boy-and-suddenly-all-of-her-internal-quandaries-are-resolved" fics. Winter has to work stuff out on her own, not because she ends up in some sort of romance. Also, I would caution you not to expect the expected regarding the future of the story. I want to do justice to Tolkien's characters and universe, not just throw a girl into a romance. There's interesting stuff a-coming. And I promise that the chapters will pick up from here-on in (in terms of action).**

 **Hope you're enjoying things, and all the best.**

 **Finwe. x**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 - Ball**

* * *

 _9_ _th_ _February, 3007_

"Ok," sighed Winter, somewhat wearily. "Théoden is King of Rohan. He's late-fifties at this stage, and not yet under the influence of Saruman. He's got teenage Éomer and child Éowyn on his hands, as their parents died five years before. Rohan is doing pretty well at this stage, but Théoden's own wife is dead."

"Correct," James intoned. "What about the state of Isengard?"

"Been under Saruman's jurisdiction for about the last 250 years. For the last fifty years or so, he's been fortifying it for himself—unbeknownst to the rest of Middle-earth. He's also in contact with Sauron, who's back in Mordor." Winter rolled her eyes. "Why don't we just get Lachie to tip Elrond off about the Sauron-Saruman thing?"

James raised an eyebrow in a disparaging fashion. "Are you _really_ gonna open that can of worms?"

Winter raised her hands to fend off a potential feud. "Not seriously, but sometimes the Arda Exchange Program policy makes me wanna beat my head against a wall."

"You're not the only one," grimaced Lachie, glancing up at them from pages of notes. He wore glasses for reading, and the brown frames merely made his eyes seem bluer. "I've read _The Silmarillion_ multiple times, but the level of detail I'm expected to know about Elven histories for this exchange is bordering on the ridiculous. There are so many nuances I have to understand, all to interact with Elrond's household in an inoffensive manner! Stop that Winter Martha Elizabeth!" he added, as she began to mime playing a tiny violin for him. "Just be thankful!"

Winter laughed. "I think it is for Jimmy dear to be thankful—all he has to remember are the Kings of Dale, and there's only been like two of them since Smaug was defeated."

"Well," said James, imperiously, "seeing as I have the least to remember—Winter, should we get back to your recitation?"

Winter exchanged a sarcastic glance with Lachie before continuing. "Alrighty. Gondor. Hm. Well, it's presently in control of Denethor II, Boromir and Faramir's father. He is in his seventies, and has been on the Steward's throne for the last twenty-odd years. Boromir and Faramir are both in their twenties at the moment. Denethor has also secured control of Osgiliath, and it won't fall for another ten years or so. Boromir and Faramir are basically the only survivors when half of the city is retaken just before the War of the Ring. Denethor is proud, noble, very imperious. He loves pomp and ceremony. Ahhh..."

"Tell me more about Denethor."

"Uhh?" Winter made another inarticulate noise. "Like what?"

James shrugged, his right hand splayed across the table whilst his left held Winter's notes. "Well he's crazy by the War, right? Where's he at now?"

"Oh. Umm, mostly normal at this stage I think. About twenty years ago his wife died, so he's bitter from that and more withdrawn from his family, but mostly sane. I think." She clawed for her notes. "Lemme see."

"Uh-uh," James waggled a finger at her. "Not done yet."

Winter huffed and sprawled bodily across the table in defeat. "What else?"

"Other realms of Gondor?"

"A lady of Gondor would not be required to have memorized _every_ region… right?"

Lachie lifted his head and pulled his glasses off his nose. With the other hand, he rubbed his eyes wearily, elbows propped on the table.

"You should know them. But most likely it won't be a question you'll be caught out on—people in the Houses of Healing won't be wandering round quizzing you on the regions."

"It's not the people in the Houses of Healing I'm worried about," chuckled Winter, by way of retort. "It's Calaron!"

James seemed to find this the end of his quiz duty, and dropped Winter's sheaf of notes. He then folded his arms and pretended to fall asleep on the desk.

The trio were sitting around a table in the mostly-deserted common room. Their proficiency testing was scheduled for the coming weekend. Whilst it would be an informal exam—essentially a verbal interview with Calaron and another program committee member—Winter felt rather jittery this afternoon. The test would determine whether they would be permitted to leave for their exchange destinations in a week's time. Over the past twenty-three days, they'd absorbed more information than Winter had thought possible. It was beyond anything contained in Tolkien's histories—or her university degree. Middle-earth's dates she had mastered in her childhood. Now, she was expected to recall precise information about various members of nobility—personality quirks, vices, and idiosyncrasies which she needed to exploit or avoid to remain inconspicuous. Most of them were Minas Tirith's lords and ladies, but Winter had also found herself memorizing bios of prominent folk of Rohan and the distant Gondorian fiefs.

"I think I've crammed in as much as I can for this afternoon," said Lachie, folding up his glasses and laying aside his meticulous notes. Winter wasn't surprised he'd qualified as a doctor—or that he'd been chosen to stay in Rivendell. He was possibly the most intelligent person she had ever encountered.

"Me too," professed James. Lachie reached across the table to bat him on the head.

"Sure, lazybones."

James held his hands out in exasperation. "Why is it that I'm the one that always gets hit around the head?"

Winter grinned lazily. "Because you're an idiot."

"Well," James said, still looking piqued, "this idiot needs a coffee. Anyone else want one?"

"James, I apologise profusely for every single wrong I have ever done to you," Lachie pleaded, leaning forward in innocence. "Will you _please_ get me a latte worthy of my good taste in caffeinated drinks?"

James feigned looking down his nose. "Perhaps I shall deign you worthy…"

"Seeing as I didn't hit you over the head," put in Winter, batting her eyelashes, "can _I_ have a skinny flat white?"

"Do I _look_ like a barista?"

"No, more like an obliging errand boy," was Lachie's cheery response. "Latte?"

James muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath. "No way, bucko."

"Alright," sighed Winter, diplomatically. "I'll come with you Jim. And I'll get your coffee, Lachie." She shot him a broad smile. "Come along, you great lummox." The 'lummox' waved a rude gesture over her shoulder in Lachie's direction. Winter did not see what Lachie did in return, but James chuckled and then walked alongside her without protest.

Ten minutes later, they returned to the common room bearing three coffees. Whilst 90% of other modern conveniences were banned, one of few things Calaron permitted was a takeaway coffee cart. It was universally agreed upon as the most popular item in the whole of Caoloth. Lachie greeted them with a triumphant smile as they returned to the common room.

"Is that mine, oh sweet Winter?"

"Certainly," she laughed, passing him the latte. His fingers brushed hers as he took it, and she moved more quickly than necessary back to her seat at the table. Sitting down, she scooped up all her study notes into a pile. His fingers seemed to find hers more than she was comfortable with these days. "I think I'm done for the day too."

"Will you play for us then, Win?" Lachie inquired, sipping his latte and smiling blissfully.

Winter nodded. From beneath the table she withdrew her banjo case; she often carried the instrument with her about the castle, seizing every opportunity to make the strings sing through the stone halls.

She began to strum. Then, wearing a cheeky half-smile, she altered course. Her face twisted in concentration slightly as she urged the banjo to produce Justin Bieber's _Love Yourself._ James moaned and covered his ears melodramatically. Lachie merely smiled.

Then the dark-haired Australian unfurled himself and looked at her inquiringly. "Winter—why don't you sing and play?"

For a moment, she stared at both of her companions dumbly. Then—

* * *

 _"_ _Where's your Mummy, Winter?"_

 _The little girl shrugged mournfully. She was a skinny thing, almost overwhelmed by a mass of lustrous red hair. Her grey eyes were like orbs in the dim light. At a guess she was about six or seven years old._

 _"_ _She's not coming; she's too busy."_

 _The teacher clicked her tongue. "Hmm."_

 _Mrs. Andrews sighed in exasperation, but pressed her lips together to suppress her disappointment on the girl's behalf._

 _"_ _Well I'm sure you'll do splendidly, sweetheart. And you can tell her all about it when you get home." Mrs. Andrews pressed her hand gently to Winter's hair. "Come on, time to go on."_

 _Winter's slender legs knocked together like hollow staves as she trotted past the curtains in the wings. Her heart stuttered like a hummingbird's wings in her chest._

 _Palms clammy._

 _Stomach roiling._

 _Fingers trembling._

 _The sound of the announcer was a screech._

 _"_ _Are you ready sweetie?"_

 _Winter felt thoroughly ill. Her childish eyes were terrified. Then she clenched her pointed chin and nodded._

 _"_ _Off you go then."_

 _The tiny figure padded onto the stage with unsteady feet. The assembly hall stage was bare and covered in a layer of grimy dust. In the centre stood a microphone on a stand, like a gangly sentinel._

 _To the microphone. Forward. One step. Two._

 _Winter stood behind it, and Mrs. Andrews was adjusting it for her height. She stared into a mass of darkness which writhed and glinted as people shifted and blinked. Her teacher stepped aside and she was a solitary figure upon the stage. The stage lights set fire to her waist-length hair._

 _There was no mother. No matter how hard she sought amidst the faceless crowd, she would not find Ada Newhall._

 _She hadn't come._

 _Winter's chest tightened. Her child's heart was pulsing with disappointment and loneliness. Howard was somewhere in the audience—but it was not Howard she longed for._

 _Mother hadn't come, wouldn't hear her perform._

 _Yet the microphone still glared at her from the end of her nose. There were people before her, expectant. She opened her mouth and a sound sprang forth. It was shaky and imperfect. Still, there was a sweetness that echoed throughout the assembly hall that captured the hearts of those before her. The pink lips parted, and before tears could overwhelm her, she reached the conclusion of the song._

 _Mother hadn't come._

 _Her face was impassive as applause rang out. It was a heartfelt congratulation for a waif of a girl, a fragile songbird. She lowered her eyes and was swept off the stage._

* * *

Winter swallowed hard. A low ache had formed in her abdomen. Lachie was staring at her; she knew she'd glazed over for a good minute, and James' pseudo-tantrum was thoroughly over as he watched her in concern.

The flash of memory left her with a vinegary taste in her mouth. The banjo was a leaden weight upon her lap. Fumbling slightly, her eyes fluttered down and she continued to play.

 _It's done. Remember? You're here now. Focus._

 _How could she have—_

 _Not now._

But the picture was seared across her mind. She could remember the patent leather shoes she'd been wearing, capped by the lace-trimmed socks. They'd been her favourites. Howard had helped her wash them out in the bath every night because she couldn't bear not to wear them. Her chest ached as if the moment had been yesterday—the lonely moment.

Winter released her clenched jaw and looked up with a strained attempt at nonchalance to meet James' frank gaze.

"No good at it, really."

The Melbourne boy grinned unabashedly. "Me either." _Love Yourself_ continued through the chorus. "But please, Win, pick another song!"

Winter nodded and obliged, lowering her head as if to study the fretboard. Lachie's heavy gaze sat on the crown of her head. She turned slightly so the thick locks of hair fell and obscured her face. Deftly, she switched from Bieber to twenty one pilots, taking up _Stressed Out._ James nodded appreciatively.

"This's a good one."

"Mm."

Winter bent her entire concentration on the song. Her right hand scampered across the strings, whilst the body of the instrument laughed in appreciation of her efforts. Realising she couldn't logically repeat the chorus again, she began to idly pluck strings.

Lachie's foot nudging her ankle startled her. She was, as usual these days, dressed in a floor-length gown of Gondorian cut. It was one of her favourite day-gowns; a warm brown with little ornamentation that clung to her figure becomingly. Lachie's booted toe, softened by the layers of skirts, made contact with her shin.

Her eyes snapped up to meet his despite the lightness of the touch.

 _Good grief, man. James made a mess. Have the grace not to trample in it._

 _Lucky you don't say these things aloud_ , drawled her inner cynic, as she was smitten by the concern in Lachie's expression.

The song had allowed her to regather composure. Her fingers still shook, but it was almost imperceptible. She smiled at him, wide mouth revealing even teeth. It was a perfectly executed gesture of, _There's nothing to worry about—I'm fine._ Inside, she stomped her foot petulantly.

 _How is it that this guy manages to make me scream internally_ , she fumed, _and yet I still like him? James makes some off-hand comment—which strikes way deeper than it should, by the way—and then this? Why do I scramble to assure him nothing bothers me? Am I crazy?_

 _No—it's just that lying to him about it is easier than dealing with the truth._

That was true enough. For, much to her distress, it felt like Lachie had been privy to the flashback which had overwhelmed her memories—like he'd been a voyeur, and she powerless to disguise herself from him.

The frustration she felt at the sensation provided Winter with enough fuel to feed the vibrant smile she put forth then.

"Do you have a song request, Lach?"

Beneath his contemplative frown, she could see a clearly emblazoned message: _I will find out what's going on with you._

 _Huh_ , she snorted silently. _Good luck._

"Mmm… any Disney?"

James, who'd fallen back asleep, dissolved into chuckles.

"For such an old man, Lachie, you've got odd taste."

Much to her own surprise, Winter struck a dramatic minor chord and retorted, "He's not old!"

She glanced wide-eyed between the two boys—men?

"When's your birthday again, Lach?"

"April 12th."

"Three days before mine," smiled Winter. "I was born in '93, though. So I'm—"

"Twenty-three this year," finished James. "How old were you when you finished school, Win?"

"I turned seventeen in April, graduated end of the year. That would've been, what… 2010? And I didn't start uni till 2012. I had a gap year while I turned 18 and did some work. Mum hated it," she chuckled, the laughter dusting away the last cobwebs of her bitter flashback. "When were you born, Lach?" She glanced at him with a bright expression, grey-blue eyes lit with vivacity.

The Canadian grinned downwards as he fiddled with his cuticles. "Well I graduated at seventeen, did three years of college, four years of med school, and a two-year residency—you do the math."

Winter blinked mutely.

 _Seventeen, plus nine… twenty-six?_

 _Wait. He can't be twenty-six!_

 _And that means he's turning twenty-seven just before you turn twenty-three._

 _Wow._

"1989, then," said James, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Gee. Well I'm born the same year as Win, though I didn't take a gap year. We graduate at 18 in Victoria." He shook his head in something like disbelief. "Wouldn't have guessed you were nearly 27, Lach."

The Canadian shrugged a little self-consciously. "You didn't guess when I told you I was a doctor? That takes a fair while, you know."

Winter cocked her head to one side, studying him closely. His face was thin and boyish with those vivid blue eyes. He was light, cheerful, youthful… as he met her gaze, however, she was confronted by its intensity.

 _No wonder he can read minds!_ her mind drawled.

It was a wonder she hadn't noticed it before. Perhaps, she realised, she had; since their first meeting, she had noted the veneer of shrewdness he carried. When he studied someone, the depth of his appraisal was perplexing.

 _You can just tell he's watching you, and thinking so deeply—you don't know what it is._

For Winter, adept at reading other peoples' estimations of her, Lachie's mystifying perceptiveness made her anxious. She had no way of knowing how deep within her he saw.

 _And I guess that is a product of his age—and wisdom._

 _Not to mention explaining why he's so darn good at giving hugs and making a girl weak at the knees. Plenty of time to practice!_

Winter repressed a scowl. _Shutup._

"Well if it's any comfort," she teased, "I could tell you that you don't look your age?"

Lachie remained fixated on his cuticles—he seemed to do that when he was embarrassed.

"I don't know if that's a compliment or not!"

Winter leaned forward conspiratorially, eyes glinting. Her voice dropped to a magnified whisper. "It is—you're not a baby like James!"

"I am _not_ a baby," cried James, haughtily. "I'm born in October, which means I'm only a few months younger than you, _Winter_!"

Abandoning his cuticles, the Canadian looked up and Winter and winked roguishly. "We'll let him think that, eh Win?"

Winter laughed musically and nodded. "Sure thing. Now I'm going to put all this away for a bit and go work out what I'm wearing for tomorrow night. I still haven't picked a dress. I'll catch ya's at dinner." Bundling her notes together, she took up her banjo with her other hand and strode nonchalantly out of the common room. As she climbed the stairs to her chambers, she sighed slightly.

 _I really, really need to get myself back together._ Tugging open her door, she tossed the notes down and nestled her banjo cautiously in its case. _Enough of this… this nostalgia. That's the kind of memory I_ do not _need_ , _primary school singing performances._ Winter pressed her lips together, the image of determination. She'd seen that expression on her mother's face countless times.

 _Well, I was thinking only a month ago that I needed to harness some of her motivation, her drive_ , she thought grimly, moving with firm strides to the wardrobe. _May not be exactly what I had in mind… but willpower sure is one of Mum's strengths. Now—enough._

Exasperated with herself for the involuntary stroll down memory lane, Winter devoted herself wholeheartedly to the wardrobe before her. Gwyn and the other ladies of Caoloth had merely added to her gowns as the weeks had passed, gradually providing new items to supplement her apparel for Minas Tirith. Her current favourite was a warm grey-blue. It was easy to smother any worries as she lifted the dress from the rack.

 _And I think—yes, I think this is perfect._

* * *

The dance in Caoloth's Great Hall was intended as a farewell for the Exchange students. Certainly, the proficiency testing wasn't to happen for another three days yet; however, once the successful students were cleared for departure, they would scatter swiftly without time for celebration. Thus, the score of visitors from Earth donned the regalia of a dozen places in Middle-earth and congregated in the hall before they had officially received the go-ahead to depart Caoloth.

Lachie exhaled as he stood with his back to the wall. As he intentionally steadied his breathing, the twists in his stomach relaxed. He'd always hated big gatherings of people, and it didn't help that his attire made him acutely self-conscious. The tunic and breeches he wore were finer than his everyday kit, and atop this were other layers which screamed _pompous_ in his mind.

Over the fitted velvet tunic was a second, with looser bell sleeves and heavy embroidery which stretched from the hem to the mandarin collar. The gold buttons extended from collar to waistline, and from there it split to allow for ease of movement and riding astride. It was longer than his usual ones too, falling well past his knees and brushing the tops of his leather boots. Atop this was a kind of robe, equally heavy and ornate, that slipped over his shoulders and hung down sleeveless to sweep the floor. The brooch which sat just below the collar and completed the ensemble was weighty and glinted in his peripherals as the candles in the Great Hall flickered.

His clothes were almost the spitting image of Elrond's in _The Hobbit_ movies; Lachie had hated the films, but had to commend the costuming nevertheless. The robes were of a similar style and cut, though they were a silvery-grey in his case. He looked Elvish with his height and build, and the sensation gave him the impression of being very alien amidst the other very _human_ guests.

James, relatively inconspicuous in a russet surcoat and much shorter sleeveless over-robe, shifted restless at Lachie's left hand.

"Ci vaer?"

James raised an eyebrow sardonically. "You know I can't understand you when you speak Sindarin, drongo."

"Pedin i phith in aníron, a nin ú-cheniog," Lachie chuckled. It was rather fun to needle him in this manner; Lachie considered it vengeance for all the Australianisms that James and Winter introduced at every spare moment to baffle him.

James gave him a playful shove. "It's all Greek to me."

"Now that," jibed Lachie, "I understand." The pair exchanged good-natured grins and turned their gazes to the rest of the room.

Along with the Exchange program members, the entire household staff of Caoloth had turned out for the occasion. Huge trestle tables stretched across half the room, already half-filled by people, whilst the other was cleared for dancing. It was just after six, and the festivities were scheduled to start soon. Lachie's quick eyes roved the scene, striving for a glance of Winter's fiery hair.

"Any idea where Win is?" put in James, at that moment. He, too, was searching the room for any sign of the third member of their trio. "She said she'd meet us here… I think. Starting to question my memory."

"No, you're right; she definitely said she'd see us down here," frowned Lachie, glancing about once more. He hoped nothing had gone wrong with her. The tall Australian girl was all fire and spirit, so much so that Lachie was perpetually confused. She was bitingly quick, witty and fiercely defensive of her privacy; yet, in odd moments, he caught the glimpses of vulnerability in her sharp grey eyes. He was rather taken aback at her fury which always followed the fleeting seconds of exposure—and still felt determined to ascertain what, precisely, was beneath Winter's veneer of implacability. She was clever in her masks, and so practiced that he even wondered whether she was aware of him noticing her slips.

 _Of course she is—remember that venomous look she gave you when you stumbled upon her in a week moment?_

"Oh, there she is," smiled James. "Gee, she looks nice!"

Lachie followed the direction of his companion's gaze. Rather than falling upon the regular image of a slim girl with a river of ruddy hair, he found himself face to face with an aristocrat.

Winter's gown was full-skirted and elaborate, with sleeves that tapered to a _v_ at her wrists and slight puffs over the shoulders. He supposed it would've required several layers, for the outer-dress dipped almost to her waist at the front and revealed a lighter fabric on the bodice beneath.

"You clean up all right, Win," James said, as she approached.

Winter arched one of her near-perfect brows as she turned to him, causing her gold earrings to tinkle beside her cheeks.

"Must I return the compliment for the sake of politeness? Or can I be honest?"

Lachie, entranced, smiled silently. He'd only known this firebrand-turned-lady for a few weeks, but he cared about her. There was something in him which wanted to know _why_ she'd been so furious in her room the other day, why she reacted so badly to innocent queries and then hid her pain so adeptly. He found people intriguing, and she was a case he'd never encountered. He'd seen plenty of people hide their emotions before, but never with such intensity. And oh, he admitted, she was beautiful; her face was enough to enchant anyone she didn't offend with her teasing. He was not someone who would proffer his heart _too_ easily, but he had the burning suspicion that she might soon possess his if he could pierce her implacable exterior. She'd captured his attention, his friendship, and finally his concern.

He would not allow her to slip by when the exchange was over.

"And Lachie looks like he stepped straight out of Rivendell," smirked Winter; he realised that her conversation with James had continued whilst he daydreamed. Absorbing the remark, he flushed a little and shifted uneasily. Winter's steadfast eyes met his, then she smiled more gently.

"I think it suits you, Lach; you look like one of the Eldar."

"Hardly," he replied, dryly.

"He's just been quoting goodness-knows-what at me in Elvish," griped James, looking aggrieved.

"Boe nathad James, i pe-channas," Lachie grinned, utterly unrepentant.

Winter reached out with one hand and batted his arm gently in mock horror. "Now _that_ was unkind."

"As unkind as using every Australian idiom ever created on a poor, innocent Canuck?" Lachie smiled with false cheer.

Both the Australians laughed heartily at this.

"This 'un's not worth a Zach," James chortled, gesturing in Lachie's direction and allowing himself to lapse into strong strine.

"Crooked as a dog's hind leg," breezed Winter.

Lachie buried his face in one hand. "I don't believe I'll ever hear the end of this!"

James patted him consolingly on the back. "Nah, mate. You're not."

* * *

"Thanks for the dance, Josh," smiled Winter, tucking a stray wisp of hair out of her face.

The young man before her—tall, dark, and satisfyingly handsome—reached gracefully for her hand as she made to lower it.

"Winter, it has been my pleasure." With that, he pressed a chaste kiss to the back of her hand. Black eyes sparkled at her from beyond her knuckles before he swept away.

Winter felt her cheeks colour slightly and she quickly clasped her hands in front of her torso. The charismatic Scottish boy had deposited her near the feasting tables, only a few metres from where James was loitering. Glancing down to hide her pink face, she sidled over to her friend and took her assigned seat beside him.

"Not dancing, Jimmy?" she inquired, half-turning in her seat and making as if to study the ballroom.

"I've had a few," shrugged James, "but I can't say this is my kind of dancing."

Winter wasn't quite able to understand that sentiment—she loved the dancing—but she nodded nevertheless. The "ball's" dance program seemed vaguely related to Australian bush dances, but with completely different patterns. She supposed it was more easily likened to ball dances in Great Britain. However, Calaron—the MC—had made clear that these were the traditional dances of the Gondorian nobility. Winter had filed that memory away for future reference.

Regardless of the origin of the dances, the room was exceedingly cheery. It seemed that the entirety of Caoloth had let down their hair by this stage—ten o'clock, according to the huge clock on the wall—and were making merry. The tables had been largely deserted in favour of the dance floor. Odd clusters remained near the food, and Winter was rather glad to sit and rest for a time.

James gave her a gentle nudge with his left arm, his right holding a tankard of beer. "I thought you told us you hate dancing too, Win."

"I do—normal dancing at parties, or contemporary dancing you do in Australia. I hate it. But this—" she waved inarticulately at the whirling of the people "—this is just a pattern to memorise. You can talk to your partner, and you just follow the movements. Easy peasy."

James chuckled knowingly and sipped his beer. "Did you have a nice chat with Joshy boy?"

"We talked about his exchange," came Winter's very guarded response. "It sounds interesting, he's—" The rest of her recount was drowned out by James' laughter.

"Oh come on, Win. He kissed your hand like—like some kinda Prince Charming! And look, you're red as a beetroot! Though," he paused contemplatively and had another sip, "I'm not sure if that's the wine or your embarrassment."

Winter, who had only had time to consume two or three goblets of alcohol, tossed her head loftily. It set her earrings dancing.

"Shut up, James. Josh is just one of those guys that flirts with all the girls—I dunno, just makes me all… flustered."

James nodded sagely. "Flirting is a power trip for him; don't let it get to you." He patted her consolingly on the arm.

 _How many beers has he had?_ Winter wondered, with an internal chuckle. He was much more relaxed than usual under the alcohol's influence. Still, his eyes were lucid and he appeared to be placidly enjoying the scene, his chair turned just _so_ to enable him to both observe the room and reach his drink

"Oh, there's Lachie," he said, gesturing rather vaguely. A moment later, Winter saw him striding exuberantly towards them. His outer robe hung off rakishly, showing the ornate Elvish tunics beneath. Studying him, she decided she liked the look on him.

 _He'll fit in well…_

"James! Winter!" Lachie cried, brightly. He grasped his chair with one hand and spun it into position with flair, before collapsing into it. His face was pink and his eyes preternaturally bright. Winter decided he was significantly drunker than James, and sighed a little internally. She enjoyed the taste of wine or cider, but had never been enamoured with the drinking culture which raged through Brisbane. She was more of an atmospheric, obscure bar kind of person, rather than frequenting nightclubs.

 _Ah, dear, Lachie…_

The Canadian, seated on Winter's right, reached behind her shoulders for a fresh goblet of wine. Noting the way his hand fumbled across the table behind her, Winter swivelled in her seat. Lachie grasped his drink and drew it tenuously towards himself. Winter halted his hand in mid-air.

Her grey eyes met his mildly-indignant blue ones squarely. "Lach, you're pretty drunk. Leave off the wine for a bit."

Lachie's mouth fell into an indignant _o._ He tugged a little on his drink. "I am not!" The words were slightly slurred. "I've only had… what… James, how many?"

James, cheerily enjoying his beer in peace, called back, "More than me, mate!"

"You really should have this instead." Winter proffered a goblet of water. Lachie eyed it with suspicion.

"Winter," he said, "you don't need to baby me."

"If you're the kind of person to get drunk when you have an eight o'clock class the next morning—then yes, I do," she retorted a little warmly. "Bring your goblet; we're going for a walk."

"But why?"

"Because you need fresh air and to get your head screwed on straight, you duffer! Come on." Winter rose gracefully and held out her hand. "C'mon. Up."

With all the sass of a fourteen-year-old girl, Lachie rolled his eyes but acquiesced. " _Fine_."

Winter grasped his arm firmly just below the elbow.

"Need a hand with him?" called James, as she led the other young man away.

She flashed a smile over her left shoulder in gratitude. "Nah, I'm all good. But thanks, Jimmy. I'll call you if he starts being an idiot."

"I'm _not_ an idiot," protested Lachie, feebly. Winter noted that he was stumbling slightly as he walked.

 _He's not nearly so bad as some other friends I've dealt with. He's conscious_ , she thought grimly. _Still—_

For some reason, it irked her that Lachie was grinning stupidly and tripping along behind her in a moderate drunken stupor.

 _What, because he's over 25 he's supposed to be a saint?_

 _No-oo… Just a friend who—who might look after other people, instead of me having to look after him. You know? Not getting lit and leaving me to babysit him, like everyone else did at home…_

 _This trip has made you_ way _too sensitive, Winter—since when did you start having deep contemplation time about how your friends' drinking habits made you feel?_

That was true. Too many flashbacks lately; too much time thinking.

Much nicer not to care too much. That was why she didn't drink much, really; she knew if she began to explore alcohol as a means to forget, she'd never make it back in one piece.

 _Focus!_

Skirting the dancers, Winter angled towards the exit. The dance floor was an exuberant flash of colour, all vibrant skirts and glistening faces. People yelled, laughed, clapped and stomped in time. It was easy to get lost in the clamour.

"Where're we goin'?" mumbled Lachie, resisting slightly. Winter paused so that she walked alongside of him instead of dragging him behind like a petulant child.

"Just out onto one of the balconies."

"It'll be cold there," he protested.

"Exactly. Good for your Canadian soul."

Lachie had no argument for that. Slipping out of the open doors, the pair turned right onto the balcony nearest the dining hall. It was already occupied; a group of three girls were lolling about on chairs, giggling and apparently also seeking the coolness outdoors as a remedy for intoxication. She recognised one of them vaguely as a permanent resident of Caoloth, but the others were unfamiliar.

Winter chivvied Lachie past them to the opposite end. He sat happily in one of the easy-chairs.

"This is nice," he chirped, his head leaning back and his eyes glinting in starlight. "Look, Win! It's beautiful."

Chuckling in spite of her pique, Winter ambled to the railing and leaned against the stone balustrade. "Yep, Lach. Stars."

For over an hour, Winter stood in silence and admired the view. The world before her was all sable and starlight. The landscape was largely a blur, but the sky was a riot of gems. She'd stood at her window every night since her arrival in Middle-earth to appreciate it. Her days in Arda were numbered; she would memorise as many of its constellations as she could manage.

Whilst she stood, she held her thoughts on a tight leash. Certainly, ideas roamed, but they were carefully controlled; light things, trivial things. It was pleasant to think of walks and dances and antics with her fellow exchange members. Her annoyance at Lachie dissipated quickly. He wasn't being difficult, he was merely enjoying himself. Soon their swotting would nearly be over, and she was reasonably confident about her proficiency testing.

 _And then—Gondor proper!_

Winter shivered with anticipation at the notion. For a month, she'd become settled into the routine that Caoloth provided. The prospect of moving onwards—albeit to bigger and better things—was somewhat unsettling. Still, she was determined she would never miss the opportunity to explore _Minas Tirith_ , of all places.

In the background, she heard Lachie muttering sweet nothings to himself. As the night slipped by, she shivered again—from cold this time. Her friend's happy self-chatter had ceased. Hoping with a stab of panic that she hadn't let him succumb to hypothermia, Winter turned to check on him.

Lachie was lying back on the chair, a beatific smile gracing his clean-cut face.

"What are you thinking of, Winter?" he inquired, with greater clarity than before. He had evidently sobered up somewhat whilst lying there. She padded slowly to join him on a nearby chair, satisfied to note that he'd consumed his entire goblet of water.

"Just thinking that soon we'll be leaving Caoloth and heading out into the world," she replied a little absently, rubbing her arms to ward off the cold. Her skin was ice.

"Here." Lachie shifted—still rather clumsy—and managed to disentangle himself from the heavy outer-robe. "It doesn't have sleeves, but it'll help." He had to stand up because he was sitting on the garment, before draping it about Winter's shoulders.

"Thanks."

She didn't mention that he'd conveniently ignored her reference to their impending departure.

"You were a popular dance partner tonight," he remarked, sitting back down with one leg stretched out and the other bent. His hands clasped around behind his knee and relaxed. Winter could feel his eyes as she twirled her fingers in her lap.

"Mm. Must be the dress," she twinkled impishly, running reverent fingers across the opulent fabric and glancing up. "I could've blended in with the wallpaper until tonight."

Lachie blinked, then nodded. "You do look beautiful."

"Thank you."

Silence.

 _I believe he's sufficiently sober to take him back inside…_

As if reading her mind, Lachie stretched. He looked at her seriously. "I think I'm good to go back to the hall, Win."

She watched him appraisingly for a moment. As if in answer to her silent query, he rose with characteristic litheness to demonstrate his returning sense of balance.

"Really, I'm totally fine. I think I'll go to bed soon anyway."

Winter nodded. "Alrighty. I'm pretty tired too, honestly. And its nearly midnight."

Lachie held out a hand to assist her up. Slightly guarded after his sincere compliment, Winter almost ignored the gesture. Her skirts were cumbersome, however, so she accepted his aid without complaint—and did not allow her fingers to linger in his for more than was strictly necessary.

As if by unspoken agreement, they began to amble at a turtle's pace along the balcony. The air was crisp, but Lachie's robe lent Winter enough warmth to make the chill rather enjoyable. As they reached the door, Lachie opened it for her. She nodded in thanks and passed into the warm-lit hallway beyond.

As her companion followed her through, she slipped the robe off her shoulders and held it out to him shyly.

"Thanks, Lachie," she smiled, eyes flicking to his for a moment. Lachie returned the gesture frankly, his grin brimming with guileless friendship. Seeing that honest, unaffected affection in his eyes made Winter's chest throb with satisfaction as he took his robe and slung it over his shoulder.

 _He's… he's a real friend,_ her mind mused, struggling for words as they continued back towards the hall. _A friend who likes you for a friend, not someone who's trying to get something from you… Like, even if he finds you attractive or has a crush on you, you're a friend first and foremost. It's not complicated. He honestly likes you._

 _For you._

 _Still think he's the kind of friend to need babysitting all the time? The kind of friend who doesn't care about anyone else and doesn't think seriously about what he's doing?_

Winter did not know quite what to do with that thought. At odd moments, she'd been filled with fear that perhaps Lachie had developed romantic feelings for her. Ordinarily she would have been rather flattered, but he was far too perceptive for her to feel safe getting _that_ close. And yet, recognising the innocent camaraderie that had sprung up—and seeing it so plainly in his smile—made her feel full of sunshine. At first she'd had trouble reading him, thought him wily and complex. Upon reflection, she realised he'd simply _baffled_ her with his transparency. Lachie made friends, treated people well, lived by kindness, and didn't beguile with ulterior motives. There was nothing nuanced beneath the surface in his actions towards others. Perhaps that was why he made her so edgy; he was utterly genuine, and her conscience pricked at her with every lie or false face she made in his presence.

 _Everything is a veil, a disguise for what's reall—_

The thought was shoved roughly into a compartment and ruthlessly locked.

Instead of continuing down that trail, Winter placed a gentle hand on Lachie's elbow. They were near the Great Hall, and she hesitated at one side of the corridor.

"Everything ok?" Lachie inquired, frowning slightly.

Winter, flying with a whim, reached out and wrapped her arms about his waist. She was tall for a woman, but he had a good six-inches on her slim frame, and she fit snugly against his chest. This was not like the hug in her room, where every movement had been extorted to wring sympathy and distract him from her true feelings. Perhaps because of its impulsiveness, his response this time caught her off guard. As she embraced him, he was swift to respond. One hand crept across her shoulder blades, whilst the other clasped her waist. Lachie's fresh-shaven face crept close to her head, his heady breath scorched her neck—and she stepped back.

 _No. Not that._

He looked a little crestfallen at her swift retreat, but grinned nevertheless. "What was that for?"

Winter, knowing her face was bright red, shrugged with false nonchalance. "I just—thanks. For being a mate. It's been a really fun few weeks with you and James, and I'm going to miss you both when we all go our separate ways."

"Mm," nodded Lachie. "Me too." For a moment they both stood in silence, eyes averted and tension arcing through the air.

Distinctly uncomfortable, Winter whisked back on track to the Great Hall. Lachie fell into step beside her, cracking a weak joke as he did so. Relieved by the attempt at humour, Winter laughed heartily. The sound echoed out and was lost amidst the clamour as the pair re-joined their cohort. Seconds later, Lachie had grasped her hands and led her in a whirling, ridiculous, hilarious pattern about the dance floor until she was weak with laughter.

 _This,_ her mind chuckled, as she took in the bright hall and the people she called friends—James, Lachie, Sarah, Josh, Elizabeth, Tahlia, countless others. _This is how life's supposed to be._

 _This is the beginning of you._

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 **Ci vaer? – Do you feel well? [informal]**

 **Pedin i phith in aníron, a nin ú-cheniog – I can say what I wish, and you won't understand me [informal]**

 **Boe nathad James, i pe-channas – James needs help, the idiot [informal and poor grammar by me]**

 **All credit to realelvish . net for the translations!**

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE**

 **I know I promised last chapter that things would get more exciting from here-on in... But I promise you, Chapter 7 and Winter will actually move on from Caoloth. I just couldn't let these character-building friendship moments slip! Something sweet and pure. I'm not saying romance _isn't_ sweet or pure, but I find myself a little annoyed at the idea that every fanfic has to be characterised by the sexual tension. Sure, Lachie likes Winter... but his potential crush on her isn't what characterises the story. Winter's finally figured out that he's a really legit guy, and he places friendship before making awkward romantic advances. This story may be a romance - but I hope it will be an organic, realistic one, where relationships don't spring up simply to satisfy tropes.**

 **Anyway, I want Winter to have a strong foundation built with her friends, that the story isn't built around a soppy love story (as I know my first fic began to be by the end). This story is about the Arda Exchange Program; not "what romances Winter had whilst on the Arda Exchange Program."**

 ***RANT OVER* Sorry guys. Hope you like the story regardless, and get ready to continue Winter's journey with her in Chapter 7.**

 **Much love - Finwe.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 - Moving on**

* * *

 _15_ _th_ _February, 3007_

The wind was particularly biting today. It clawed and snagged in Winter's cloak, whistling shrilly and making her feel distinctly small.

She'd passed.

She was going.

Eager footsteps carried her out of the lee of the bailey wall and to the rustling grasslands beyond. Her cloak fluttered like a flag from her neck, exposing the rich blue of the dress beneath. Wisps of hair slipped free of her long braid, causing them to ripple like flames about her head.

 _Three days!_ she exulted, breaking into a slight jog as she passed over a small rise and down the other side. _Three days and we're out of here. I'll see Middle-earth! And Minas Tirith!_

Her chest sang. She half-wished she had her banjo on hand to release her joy in a torrent of music. As it was, she settled for breaking into a run.

Winter had not known how anxious she was about the proficiency testing until Calaron had informed her of her success. She'd knew she'd prepared better for this than any exam from her UQ days—why had it rattled her so?

She increased her pace to a flat-out sprint, moving rather awkwardly in her burdensome dress. After another hundred metres, she slowed to catch her breath. Caoloth was some way behind, pale and graceful against a perfect skyline. Not another soul was outside the bailey today—and Winter was glad for the solitude. Somehow, she'd needed this moment of aloneness before her departure, to be pleased in silence and enjoy the warmth in her chest.

 _Time for a bit of introspection?_

Walking briskly, rubbed her nose. _Oh sure,_ she drawled, _in case there hasn't been enough soul-searching the past month!_

That was certainly true. What bothered Winter more than her spontaneous internal dialogues was her inability to ascertain _why_ they occurred. Why did she find herself lapsing in thought these days? Was something wrong with her? Ought she go seek out one of the medics in Caoloth?

 _And now, when I come out here to be excited about my transfer—I'm getting caught in that? In why I was so nervous? Goodness, brain, you're supposed to be under my control! Not run off on whims! I wanted to sit out here and be pleased, not have another Dr Phil moment!_

Approaching a boulder which broke the rolling landscape, Winter began to scramble atop it. It seemed the most likely place to think, despite the wind which threatened to topple her off.

 _Is it something to do with Lachie?_ she pondered with less roughness than before, wrapping her cloak around herself and settling on top of the rock cautiously. Against her will, she found herself blushing. Her thoughts strayed to his hug mere hours before, when they had realised all three members of their trio were qualified to go out into the world. He'd grabbed her tight, his arms distractingly secure around her body. Then there was the affectionate yet chaste kiss he'd planted on the side of her cheek—and, worse still, her apparent lack of desire to protest.

She paused a moment. _No, it's not him. He's sweet. I like him. And he'll get less attached when we are apart for 11 months. That'll be fine. He'll get over it._

Winter's eyes glazed over as she stared at the landscape and derailed the previous thought train. Middle-earth _was_ beautiful; and she couldn't help but be delighted by the wonders she'd seen since arriving in South Gondor. Even a month in one single, secluded location had been enough to entrance her. Everything was novel, from grass to mountain to river to tree.

Today, the sun bestowed its pale touch on the landscape, barely countering the bitter cold of the wind. The atmosphere was clear, leaving the mountains unobscured by haze. They were, as ever, capped by snow, whilst the grasses were particularly vibrant after several days of rain. The sky was a roof of cheerful blue. She smiled.

 _I do so love it here,_ she mused, glad for a change in thought. _And I'm barely homesick now, even if I do miss my family. Middle-earth is simply… magnificent. Easy to forget the sadness._

 _It's because you care._

Winter frowned slightly at the unforeseen thought.

 _What?_

 _It's because you care._

 _Not quite sure what you're getting at…_

 _You've lived in a bubble of apathy too long, Winter. You've not been nervous or thoughtful because you told yourself you didn't care. Be strong. Don't let it bug you. You're that hard-to-offend kinda chick, with an arsenal of sarcasm and no worries, because worries are for the weak._

 _Gee thanks, you make me sound like a really fun person to be around._

The contemplative side of her brain merely chuckled.

 _Look, at least I'm honest._

 _Wow._

 _No, it's just the truth; you're here. You care. It's like Abby said before you left—this is what you're passionate about. Of course that's going to change you._

Winter snorted aloud in her solitude, drawing her gaze away from the landscape to toy with the hem of her thick cloak.

 _I dunno I want to be passionate about anything if it makes me this… emotional. And silly._

 _You wanted to pass the proficiency test more badly than any anatomy exam at UQ. So you worried. I'd say that's normal._

Disliking her internal philosopher's reasoning, she tossed her head. _Normal if you're a jittery person._

 _Normal if you care. And you do. So welcome to the new normal._

Winter rolled her eyes, then realised how ridiculous such a motion was when she was arguing with _herself_ a kilometre from civilisation. She chuckled. Her internal philosopher looked rather smug in her imagination, but she was too relieved to begrudge it much. She really had passed, and in three days would set out with the others to journey to Minas Tirith.

 _And maybe I'm right, maybe this whole thing has given me a sense of purpose and commitment I didn't have before,_ she admitted with considerable reluctance. _Which would explain the nerves—not so much the soul-searching._

The philosopher laughed again, though it made Winter less nervous than before.

 _Sorry darlin'; when you sign up for one emotion, you get them all. It's a package deal. You can't start to care, and remain locked in stone._

For the first time in a month, Winter was left unfazed by such a remark. She hadn't felt this delight, this bubbling wellspring of joy, in many years. She had achieved something in being selected for the Arda Exchange Program. Now, she'd taken another step in passing her proficiency test and being approved for integration into Gondorian society. If she had to deal with the little flashbacks to be full of this enchanting anticipation—well, she'd take it.

* * *

Winter blinked rapidly as her horse ambled through the archway which broke Rammas Echor. The path beneath her mount's hooves was hard-packed, gravelly earth. The wall they were passing was a stout, sturdy defence which extended for about a kilometre to her left. On her right, it extended far beyond until it was lost in a haze.

However, it was not this which captured her attention.

For some days, the knot of riders and wagons from Caoloth had journeyed closer and closer to the looming mountains. The temperature had dropped as they left the coast further behind, whilst Winter had been captured by the sheer magnitude of Ered Nimrais. As they'd neared their journey's end, the altitude of the peaks had dropped somewhat. However, what surprised her most was the jagged nature of the mountains. They were not uniform shapes, but bare, icy, jagged pinnacles of pale stone. They were an embodiment of all that was untamed and unspoiled.

Today, she stood at the very foot of the range. To her right in the distance, Winter could make out an extensive sheet of water. It was far wider than the River Gilrain, and its slow-moving surface was like a mirror for the noonday sun. Seeing the Anduin had left her somewhat dazed. They were so close now.

She had begun to lose sight of the Anduin as they travelled closer to the mountains' feet, and finally reached a port which their leader, Braigon, had identified as Harlond.

To Winter, Harlond meant one thing—Minas Tirith.

Her view of Minas Tirith had, until this point, been obscured by Harlond's buildings and Rammas Echor. As her black mare, Lúna, passed through the archway, these obstructions disappeared—and Winter was confronted with the most spectacular view of her life.

Minas Tirith was built against the mountains, encircled by the Pelennor Fields. However, it was not in the centre of this walled grassland, but to the south and rather close to where Winter and the Exchange Program company now paused. As best as Winter could remember, it was about 20km from the city to the north-east corner of Pelennor; from the south-east, where they stood, it was a mere 5.

It felt like they were approaching the city from the side. Indeed, they were, Winter realised, as she mentally scanned her tucked-away knowledge of Gondor's capital. The main gate faced east, whereas they were approaching from slightly to the south. With its back nestled against the mountains, only half of the city was visible from the exchange students' angle of approach.

 _And truthfully,_ Winter gasped internally, _that's enough._

She'd lived among gravity-defying skyscrapers all her life, but this left her speechless. More than that, it completely defied anything she had expected of Minas Tirith from both her readings of the books, and watching Peter Jackson's films. In the latter, the city had seemed startlingly upright and steep; reading Tolkien's novels, her mind had struggled to conceive precisely what he described. Thus, Winter had not been prepared for the city's height or sheer _magnitude._

Sure, it was tall. But it spread over such a huge part of land that its sprawling nature, rather than its height, caught Winter unawares. It also sat on a rise, and the grass swept up to meet the base of the wall rather than resting on level ground.

The grass, too, was a shock; she'd known that, in the books, Pelennor was good farmland. Jackson had missed that in the films, but the fields were undoubtedly a surprise. The road wove lazily among hedged paddocks, past rocks, bubbling streams, shrubs and scatterings of trees. Everything looked fertile and well-tended, despite the cool of winter. It was neither barren nor uniform. More than that, it almost looked like an unspoiled section of English countryside.

 _Not the brown, grassy plain that PJ had us imagining,_ she admitted. They had halted for a moment whilst the wagons of the company caught up, and she used this to drink in the landscape.

She had fully expected Pelennor to be boring and rough. To realise it was, rather, a kind of "Garden of Eden" was a pleasant jolt. Add to this a positive _behemoth_ of a city, and Winter was mesmerised.

Both Minas Tirith and the mountains upon which it half-perched were a startling, creamy white. The city almost _glowed_ in its paleness, a baffling concept after her smoggy home-world. It was all white, save for the outer wall, which was inky black. Instead of being narrow and tall, the levels of the city were far broader than Winter had anticipated; and rather than sitting with its back rigidly against a cliff, as Jackson had depicted, Minas Tirith seemed to straddle a mountain spur which extended out into the rolling farmland, the Hill of the Guard. This spur was the "out-thrust knee" of Mount Mindolluin, behind. The city's highest level rose above the altitude of the slope on which it perched, whilst Winter could see a walled pathway leading further back along the knee toward Mount Mindolluin itself.

Having been rather underwhelmed by Minas Tirith in the films—which looked rather impressive, but distinctly unromantic—Winter was _spellbound._ This real-life White City was every bit the fortress-palace she could have dreamt of, had she been able to articulate her ideas in word or through pictures. Its paleness defied any kind of grime, and its lines were slightly arched to give an illusion of grace. She truly understood, too, why Ered Nimrais had received their name—the White Mountains. They were almost ghostly in the afternoon light.

 _Incredible._

"Close your mouth, Win; don't want to catch flies, do you?" came a low voice from her left. James halted his chestnut mount beside her. His grin was cheery, but Winter knew he was every bit as awestruck as she was.

"Have you ever seen anything so _incredible_?" she breathed.

James' countenance became a fraction more serious. "Honestly? No." His dark eyes shone with admiration and love. It was easy to forget that the light-hearted Australian had just as much passion for Middle-earth as Winter did herself. Minas Tirith's splendour was not lost on him.

"Let us continue," called Braigon, his horse trotting to the front of the column as he led the way onwards. Winter absently nudged Lúna into a walk. The obliging mare obeyed, though her ears were pricked and even she seemed distracted by the city. Braigon set a brisker pace, now that they were close to their destination's end. He was a pleasant man, early-thirties by Winter's guess. She hadn't found him quite the same, merry personality as Calaron had been, but he was a shrewd leader and not opposed to laughter in their travels. The ride from Caoloth to Minas Tirith had been an enjoyable one with Braigon in command.

Perhaps, Winter admitted, this had also been due to James and Lachie's presence on the ride.

She glanced behind her to locate the third member of their trio. Lachie rode a few metres behind James, his face a study of concentration. He had not taken well to horseback riding. He was better than he had been at the start of their transfer, but as Braigon increased the pace to a brisk canter, Lachie was forced to devote all his energy to remaining aboard his placid gelding. Winter had never been so thankful for her childhood riding lessons as in the past week.

She smirked and returned to facing forward, giving Lúna a loose rein as they sped across the lush landscape. She'd been delighted to hear that almost all the exchange members—except those bound for places due West of Caoloth—were to travel together to Minas Tirith. After a brief sojourn to sightsee, those bound for lands beyond the White City would follow the road north to a town in Anorien. There, Braigon would lead them to an Arda Exchange Program outstation, which housed one of the teleportation devices. For those such as Lachie, who needed to reach lands far afield, the travel times were simply too slow to be practical on a year-long exchange. They still had to travel conventionally to this other outstation—Winter wasn't sure why, exactly—but it was a mere fraction of the time it would have taken to ride to Rivendell.

Anyway, she hadn't complained; anything to put off her separation from her new friends was welcomed.

"Well, you can't miss it," remarked James plaintively, interrupting her thoughts as they drew closer to the city.

Winter nodded. "I just—I can't believe I'm going to _live_ here." She steadied Lúna with a soft pull on the reins so she didn't draw too close to the horse in front. "It's incredible."

"You'll fit right in," smiled her friend, his eyes travelling over her outfit. "We're merely here to escort you," he added, teasingly.

She laughed. It was, in a sense, true; such a large company of mismatched individuals would have caused a stir arriving in Minas Tirith. Thus, Winter—the only person remaining in the city—had been forced to adopt her character already. She'd been dressed in an aristocratic riding kit for this final day of travel, and rode in the middle of the group to uphold the façade of being a moderately-ranked noblewoman.

The charade also meant that those around her, who would soon depart, had been kitted out as members of her escort to avoid suspicion. Some, such as James, wore light armour as their guise. Lachie was dressed as a high-ranking member of her household staff, and the ladies of the party had taken roles as maids or companions.

"Technically," James remarked, holding the reins with a practiced hand—his horsemanship put Winter's to shame, "you're actually our lady. So, as one of your men-at-arms, I'm obliged to defend you." He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword with a playful smile. "Hope no one actually expects me to do anything with this thing."

"Mm, you're more likely to poke yourself in the eye than injure any foes," Winter quipped in response.

"Hey—"

"Form up properly," called back Braigon, over one shoulder. "Winter—I mean, Lady Faenil—in the centre of the column. Ladies in waiting behind. Men-at-arms, form up about them. Members of staff at the rear."

Winter edged her mare to the right, whilst James maintained his position on her other side. She still could not become quite used to hearing her friends practicing the title 'Lady Faenil'. Nor could she quite forgive Calaron for assigning her a name which meant 'radiant white'.

 _"_ _I thought I ought to follow a theme," he'd teased, passing her the profile booklet she needed to familiarise herself with. "The word for 'winter' didn't seem to fit, so I settled on something which described snow. I'm sure you'll feel right at home."_

 _Sure. Thanks._

"I hope you shall find the rest of your journey pleasant, Lady Faenil," James said, cutting through her silent griping.

"You wouldn't, if I could catch you and give you what you deserve," Winter growled in response, though her eyes sparkled.

"Ladies," said James, imperiously, "do not discipline their men-at-arms."

"And men-at-arms aren't normally idiots, so we're already breaking tradition."

James let out a hearty bark of laughter which broke off as they swept up and over a slight rise. Minas Tirith was now truly before them.

 _I take back any claims that it's not really that tall…_

Braigon slowed as they followed a curve in the road, passing into the shadow of the outer wall.

 _It really is happening… and it's huge._

The company halted as Braigon approached the gates. Winter self-consciously pulled the hood of her cloak up to cover her head, uncertain what to expect as their leader approached the Guards of Minas Tirith. The gates were open, though many soldiers stood about it, calmly watchful. One stepped forward to speak with Braigon, who replied confidently. Winter heard mention of 'Lady Faenil' and 'daughter of Lord Lossemen'.

 _The Guards of Minas Tirith… whoever thought I'd be calling_ real people _by that title,_ she almost laughed. It was so odd to use the terms she'd come to love in literature to apply to the flesh and blood before her.

Obviously the guards saw nothing wrong with Braigon's petition to enter the city. After sighting some paperwork, they allowed him to return to the company and they were permitted to pass. This was, after all, a time of peace. Minas Tirith wouldn't allow just any armed company to wander through the gates, but security was not as tight as it would become in another decade.

Winter's grey eyes darted about as they rode through. Her gaze lingered on the impressive lines of the archway, and on the colossal gates which protected the city. Then her attention turned to the soldiers as they passed.

She was immediately taken aback by their height. Lachie was tall at 6'4", but every man in the armour of Minas Tirith reached or surpassed that easily. They were giants of men, with broad shoulders and sharp eyes that flickered immediately to rest on Winter.

She shuffled a little uncomfortably under the direct stares, profoundly glad for her foresight in pulling the hood up. She wasn't entirely used to the finery she wore, nor the appraisals.

 _'_ _Spose I should've expected it, being the lady of the party…_

Deciding that there was no use in being discomfited, Winter began to match their looks stare-for-stare. She was not disappointed by her studies into the lore of Middle-earth; the gene pool was obviously not as diverse as it was on Earth. Every soldier wore the peaked helmets familiar from Jackson's films— _well, he nailed that!—_ and all but one or two had grey eyes. Their hair was almost uniformly black, rather than the sandy browns of Jackson's trilogy. The occasional one had tresses of a dark brown, but they were few and far between.

Perhaps the most distinctive thing Winter noticed as they passed from the gate into a smaller inner courtyard was the _stature_ of the men. It was more than just the straight forms clad in chainmail and black surcoats. Each face held a kind of _nobility_ which she had not observed in her home-world.

 _The shape of the nose? The steady gaze? The strong forehead?_ Winter pondered, trying to establish some kind of connection as they picked their way through an increasing number of people who were passing the square. _The armour, even? The clean-cut jaws?_ The majority appeared to have lean, thinner faces. But no, it wasn't that.

At any rate, there was an other-worldliness about these men. Any of them would have been hailed as a lord and king back on Earth.

 _And this is just the common soldier!_

Her attention was then captured by people of other kinds. Women! Women clad in muted colours. These were common women, she realised, wearing simple yet attractive gowns in greys, blues and greens. Many wore scarves or cloaks to ward off the light chill. They possessed a keen similarity to the menfolk, and encapsulated that same indefinable alien quality which Winter couldn't quite pinpoint.

Braigon led them across the square and toward a sloping stone road to the right. Winter glanced upward, startled to realise they had come to the base of the Hill of the Guard, the rock outcropping which jutted and stretched as high as the seventh level of the Citadel.

Her mouth dropped into a small _o_ as Lúna followed the other horses across the square. The shadow of the cliff was resting upon her. She shivered slightly.

 _I'm in Minas Tirith._

* * *

"Is this real life? Or is this just fantasy?" demanded Lachie, bursting into Winter's chamber from the balcony beyond. "Winter, you've made the big time!"

Winter, who was sitting on the enormous four-poster bed in her bedroom, grinned happily.

"That's right, gentleman; think of me here, in the lap of luxury, whilst you're journeying further north and roughing it on the road," she replied lazily, then flopped backwards on the bed. "I could get used to this."

"I'll say," put in James, emerging from an archway. "Winter! You've got three rooms to yourself!"

"As befits a Lady of Gondor."

She sent a cheeky grin in James' direction.

Lachie had returned to the balcony. "This view is impeccable, Win."

Winter peeled herself off the thick coverlet and strode through the archway to the balcony. In truth it wasn't a balcony, but rather a kind of long, columned veranda which stretched the length of Winter's suite. Her rooms were situated in the fifth level of Minas Tirith; the Houses of Healing and quarters for guests of the Steward were on the sixth level, whilst the Citadel itself was on the seventh. It left Winter conveniently close to where she would work in the Houses of Healing. It also afforded her exquisite views over the 20km of land between the city and Rammas Echor to the north-east.

"I thought the view from Caoloth's tower was nice," Lachie breathed. "But this—this, Win, is another thing entirely."

Winter couldn't disagree with that. She felt full to the brim with drinking in the scenery, and could scarcely register the picturesque world which stretched away from her at this height.

"Words don't quite describe it," she laughed. "Come back inside; if anyone sees a strange gentleman standing on the balcony of a single Gondorian maiden, there will be an absolute _scandal._ "

Lachie acquiesced to her request with a chuckle, and they retired.

Winter's rooms were on the upper storey of a beautiful estate house nestled among the houses of other moderate nobility. This was supposedly the townhouse of 'Lord Lossemen', and the residence of his daughter for her sojourn in Minas Tirith. It was populated now by her "retinue"—though they would depart in a week—and a knot of staff, who would remain to assist Winter in her transition to life in Gondor.

Returning to her bedroom, Winter chivvied both of the boys back through an archway to the sitting room. Her "suite" consisted of a bedroom, sitting room, bathroom and small study nook. James, averted from jumping on her bed, had resorted to flopping upon the couch.

"Winter, if things go badly in Dale—imma come back here and live with you," he informed her, matter-of-factly. "This couch is surprisingly comfortable."

"You would dare question the hospitality of Lord Losseman," cried Winter, in mock horror.

"No," James protested. "I have a great respect for Lord Losseman. He bought you this couch!"

Lachie chortled at that. He was seated on the other chair, a plush armchair. Grinning down at James, Winter perched herself on the side of Lachie's chair. She immediately wished she hadn't, as Lachie slipped an arm around her waist to steady her.

Very conscious of his warm hand resting near her hip, Winter fiddled with one earring.

"So what's the plan for the rest of the day?"

"Apparently we're all having supper together, courtesy of your estate," said Lachie. His face was near her heavy brocade sleeve.

"Excellent," sighed James, his hands tucked behind his head in perfect relaxation.

"And then tomorrow?"

"I believe you are expected to go for an exploration of the city, Winter, in order to facilitate all of us following behind as your retinue," laughed Lachie. Despite a boned corset and a petticoat, Winter could feel his fingers trace a caress on her hip.

"That I can do," she admitted. Better to completely ignore his affection.

 _Rattles you, doesn't it?_

 _Shut up._

"Yeah, look, if you don't want to go wandering through _Minas Tirith_ to explore… you're an idiot," stated James, firmly. "And our Winter isn't an idiot, is she?"

"No," came Winter's serene reply.

Lachie's arm tightened around her as he chuckled. His firm yet gentle grip pulled her against him. Winter was just short of toppling onto his lap when her heart gave a panicked throb.

 _Nopety nope, Lachlan Howes._

Placing a soft hand on his shoulder and smiling down at his bright blue eyes, Winter disentangled herself and stood up. Lachie's face was still alight with contentment, and she was uncomfortably caught between her fear of getting too close and delight at his affection.

 _You're getting soft, when a little caress like that sends you into a floundering panic._

"So," she said, masking her fluttery stomach. "What remains to be seen is this; what do we do this afternoon that won't result in my exposure as a fraudulent noblewoman?"

"Well you'd better not let James out onto the streets," said Lachie. As Winter ambled across the lush carpet of her sitting room, she could almost feel his gaze on her back.

"I should have you know," replied James, his Australian accent disappearing completely, "that I am a gentleman of aristocratic standards; it grieves me greatly to hear you speak so ill of a friend of Lady Faenil."

"I thank thee for thy defence," smiled Winter, as Lachie erupted into peals of laughter.

"N'uir thiad gîn 'ell, James," the Canadian managed at length.

Winter half-gaped. "Goston angin! Boe gi nestad?

"I'm quite well, though I believe dear James is about to have a cerebral haemorrhage," smiled Lachie, grinning over at James' indignant pout.

"Also, you'll have to correct the formality of your phrasing," Lachie remarked. "All of your statements are very informal, Win. Say anything like _that_ in your presentation to the Steward's Court, and you'll be tossed out on your head."

 _Goodness, it's easy to forget how strict an environment this is, when we're lounging around in my room… But a mistake here could really mess it up for me, with propriety and all…_

Still, it was hard to stick to her adopted Gondorian manners of speech with James reclined on her couch, and Lachie sending giddy smiles in her direction. They could have been sitting around at the end of a uni day, except that Winter was very aware of the stiffness of her gown.

 _Oh well. I'll practice my Sindarin before I ever have to be introduced to Denethor._

After a moment of silence, Lachie's face lit up. Both boys had deposited their belongings in the corner of Winter's room, intending to relocate them later. The tall blonde leapt from the armchair—leaving it free for Winter to claim—and hurried towards his leather pack. After half a minute of hunting, he produced a small cloth bag, about the size of a mobile phone. Undoing the drawstrings, he tipped out a worn pack of cards.

"Anyone for Blackjack?"

James sat up and exchanged a grin with Winter. He then turned back to Lachie.

"You're on, mate."

* * *

 _28_ _th_ _February, 3007_

"You are both fortunate you are not required to work in the Houses," demurred Winter, sipping delicately at a cup of tea. The drink was unlike tea on Earth, carrying an exotic tang which Winter enjoyed more than her homeland's equivalent. Sipping at the warm drink was soothing as she worked methodically through the toast, cheese, olives and ham upon her plate.

 _No use skipping meals, when they're as good as this,_ she reasoned internally, warning her stomach to stop it's flip-flopping.

"Perhaps," Lachie replied, nodding deferentially and with a faint hint of disappointment. "However, we shall have to remain indoors throughout the morning, as there will be no need to escort you about the city."

Winter smiled down at her plate, daintily biting into a slice of her very Mediterranean fare. "Perhaps we shall walk near the Tower of Ecthelion after the noon meal."

"I should like that," James contributed. His face was remarkably serious as he glanced to Winter's place-setting. "Tea, milady?"

 _He's playing the part of a Gondorian servant well._

"Yes thank you, James."

As her friend filled her teacup, Winter glanced across at the straight-laced woman standing near the door. This morning at breakfast, the long table was filled only by muted conversation. Over the past four days in Minas Tirith, it had been the scene of loud talk and laughter. The house of Lord Losseman had been closed off to prevent any passers-by from noticing the unusual arrangement where servant ate alongside Lady. Once the other exchange students passed onwards, the ruse would not be necessary. Then, Winter would be left alone with her smaller contingent of permanent household members and would eat only in the company of her _byrath_ , Badhor, and companion—Túiel, the stiff-starched woman who watched them from the sidelines with her hawkish grey eyes.

Like every other woman Winter had seen in Minas Tirith, Túiel had raven-dark hair, though it was streaked with silver. She was, as best Winter could establish, like a matronly "lady in waiting". She was responsible for mothering "Lady Faenil" whilst she was "experiencing the world" in Gondor's capital. Túiel had a slim face, bitten by lines, and strong black brows. Her gaze was sharp, and yet she did not appear overly severe. Her hair was pulled back softly in a becoming up-do, and her form was slim without being bony. Every movement was calm and efficient.

 _Kind of like I imagined McGonagall—and just as teddybear like on the inside, I'm sure._

It had taken but an instant to realise that any displays of sternness on Túiel's part were merely for show. Winter was certain that, if she acted like a child, her companion would not hesitate to reprimand her. However, Winter was not some kind of hapless heroine. She was well aware of how she needed to behave to blend in in Minas Tirith, and demonstrating this to Túiel over the past four days had already earned her two genuine smiles.

 _What a win._

This was the reason that the talk at Lady Faenil's table was decidedly subdued. Winter knew she needed to practice her decorum for the coming morning; Túiel was a well-trained Exchange Program member, despite her Gondorian heritage and upbringing. She would not allow Lady Faenil out of her father's house if she did not behave properly.

"Thank you, James," Winter smiled, realising she'd left the cup of tea untended for a moment as she traipsed through a city of thoughts.

 _At least you're prepared for this,_ she told herself, sternly. _Everyone else here has no idea of the proper way to act in Minas Tirith._ That, at least, explained the lack of conversation.

Winter sipped her tea again, the visceral action keeping her distracted from the jitters. Those butterflies were because she _cared_ , sure; her internal philosopher had reminded her of that again this morning. It didn't prevent her from wishing the infernal creatures would flutter away, however. She did not want nerves to sully her first impressions.

This morning was to be her introduction to the staff at the Houses of Healing. She would not begin work there until after the other exchange members had left—something Winter found herself dreading more than she'd anticipated—but Túiel believed it necessary that she make an appearance and greet the Warden and Ioreth, the most senior Healer-woman in the Houses.

Winter smiled softly, her other hand reaching for her breakfast. She took a generous bite. It was odd to find herself about to meet the Wise-Woman who prattled Aragorn's ear off during the War of the Ring.

 _I wonder what it will be like, working under Ioreth… Whether I'll manage one day or two before I made a snarky comment and get fired…_

"Milady."

Winter's gaze snapped to Túiel.

"Yes, Túiel?" _Gotta work on that pronunciation._

"It is a quarter of an hour until we must depart, in order to arrive at the Houses in due course." The companion-woman spoke with a perfect mixture of deference and instruction. Winter liked her. There was nothing like the sickly-sweet Gwyn in this proud Gondorian woman.

"Is there aught I must do before we depart?"

"I shall have Aeglossel fetch your cloak from upstairs. Aside from that, we may simply go when it is time."

"Very well. I shall not be long." Winter smiled at her companion, who responded with a very small upturning of the lips.

The Australian girl returned to her tea and bread. She consumed the last half-dozen bites with her best mix of speed and delicacy, before draining the cup. James and Lachie had struck up their own quiet conversation with Tahlia, a girl to Lachie's right. As Winter finished her meal, Aeglossel—an exceptionally pretty maidservant—reappared with Lady Faenil's cloak. Winter rose and allowed the young woman to help her put it on.

"Thank you, Aeglossel."

The girl curtseyed. "Milady."

 _Good grief, this place is stiffer than a cardboard suit!_

As Túiel donned her own cloak in preparation, Lachie caught Winter's eye.

"Are you ready for today?" he asked, very low. Winter's expression was halfway between a grimace and a smile.

"I believe so. Though I envy you all, getting to put off your 'first day on the job' for another few weeks yet!"

Lachie caught her fingers and squeezed them sympathetically. There was, today, no hint of longing in his eyes—just friendship and understanding. _Phew. Couldn't handle that on top of these first-day jitters, could I?_

"You'll do great," he said, steadfastly.

Winter pressed her lips together. She'd become partially reconciled to this idea of truly "caring" about Middle-earth. She had _not_ , however, decided to accept the emotional weakness which came with it. There was to be no wavering for Ada Newhall's daughter.

Thinking of her mother made her smile.

Then, her face a perfect mask of self-assurance, Winter nodded.

"Yes. I will."

* * *

"You performed well," remarked Túiel, in her simple yet musical way. "Your responses were proper and correct, your posture good, and your words well-spoken."

 _Goodness! Wouldn't have picked this one as an avid complimenter._

"Thank you," Winter replied, admittedly relieved to hear her companion's praise. Three hours into their first morning out together, and she knew she was going to need this woman's advice more than a plant needed water.

The pair of women walked two paces ahead of two male members of Lady Faenil's staff, who were to serve as her daily escorts to the Houses. After several hours of learning the fundamental protocols and becoming acquainted with the layout, Winter was pleased to be returning to the house. Now she knew what to expect, she felt braced to tackle her new tasks.

After delivering her compliments, Túiel lapsed into silence. Winter didn't mind. Her mouth twitched as she recalled her morning's adventures. Ioreth had lived up to her every expectation, nearly driving Winter to despair with her loquacity. The Warden, by contrast, was a pleasant and soothing personality. The other healers had seemed a little stiff, but Winter was certain they would warm up to her.

 _Not as bad as you expected, eh?_

 _No…_

Relieved to have broken the ice, she turned her thoughts to the buildings about them. This part of Minas Tirith was primarily made up of elegant noble houses, interspersed with upmarket stores. The upper levels catered to their residents—the nobility—with jewellers, libraries, seers and drapers. Members of lesser professions established their businesses in the first three or four levels of the city. On the fifth tier, the streets were relatively quiet. Nobility and merchants moved about, but there was none of the rushing crowd Winter had noticed upon entering the lowest levels several days before.

After descending from the sixth tier, the quartet passed around the curve of the fifth. The layout of the city gates required people to weave back and forth in order to travel between them. This also involved passing directly through the great spur of rock which jutted out from the Citadel.

The spur had baffled Winter through her readings of the books and watching the films, where it was treated vastly differently. Having seen it herself, she'd realised it was, in fact, merely a rocky shoulder extending out from Mount Mindolluin, the peak directly behind the city. It was higher at its end, where it jutted out over the city at the altitude of the seventh tier and bisected every level save the bottom one. Where the spur stretched back behind the citadel to join its mountain roots, it was only the height of the fifth tier, reinforced by ramparts. That was, as Winter understood it, the way to the tombs of the rulers—Rath Dínen—which were buried deep in Mount Mindolluin.

Regardless of the precise geography of Minas Tirith, Winter was awed by the spur of rock. She had first referred to it as the Hill of the Guard, though she had later realised this was the name for the entire slope that Minas Tirith was carved into. Perhaps it was merely an unnamed shoulder. As it were, she'd discovered it was necessary to pass _through_ it five times on the way to the top of the city, and every time she passed from her house to the Houses of Healing.

Winter grinned upwards as they neared the huge cliff-face and entered the tall archway which cut through it. Her broad smile drew Túiel's gaze.

"You have but two faults, child," the woman said, though her voice was rather gentle, like a firm but kindly grandmother.

 _Just two?_ Winter wondered, sharply. _Also... child? Really? Is Gwyn pulling a Saruman on you?_

"Yes?"

"First, you are too expressive."

 _Huh. Not what I would've picked, but cool. Sure._

"Is that against protocol?" she asked, instead, frowning.

"There, you do this again," Túiel remarked. "You are guarded in your expressions for the most part, Lady Faenil. Yet when you do express emotion, your countenance is swept away by this feeling. Your smile—it is wide and pleased. Yet in Minas Tirith, such a clear display of feeling is usually reserved for the most intimate of friends or family."

 _Huh. That's one I didn't know._

Winter tempered her smile to a small, demure upturning of her mouth. "Have I improved?" she teased, her soft words caught up by the echoes as they passed beneath the huge rocky shoulder.

 _This could be creepy, if you were claustrophobic_ , she mused, glancing up at rough ceiling of the tunnel.

Túiel gave a guarded smile of her own. "Yes, a little."

The Australian restrained a chuckle as she drew her attention away from the stonework. "And what is my second fault, Túiel?"

Her companion looked at her frankly. It was not an unkind look—rather, it was almost a sorrowful one. Winter was confused until Túiel spoke.

"You have this—this hair of fire."

This time, Winter could not restrain her laughter.

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 **N'uir thiad gîn 'ell – "Ever is your presence a joy" (informal)**

 **Goston angin – "I'm worried about you" (informal)**

 **Boe gi nestad? – "Do you need to be healed?" (informal)**

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

 **I promised you that in Chapter 7 we'd see Winter leave Caoloth. Here we are! They've made it to Minas Tirith.**

 **I realise this one's heavy on the description. Honestly, unsure if I'm happy with it. But at any rate, you've seen her arrive, had a bit of Lachie-Winter-James banter, met a few key players, and begun Winter's work in the Houses.**

 **Next chapter (though I dislike spoilers, as a rule) we'll see the others go and Winter begin her work in earnest.**

 **I'm sorry for the slow starts - I promise it will begin to pick up the pace as we go along.**

 **Please leave a review if you can! I love getting them. ^_^**

 **Thanks, Finwe. x**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 - The Houses of Healing**

 ***LONG CHAPTER WARNING***

* * *

 _7_ _th_ _March, 3007_

"I had not seen such a vibrant colour of the hair until I became acquainted with you, milady," Aeglossel remarked. Her voice was sweet-spoken and crisp; Winter never tired of hearing the girl speak as she tended to her toilet.

Today, Winter grinned at the remark. She sat on a padded stool at a dressing table, wrapped in a soft dressing gown of pale green and facing the wide mirror. In this mirror, she could see Aeglossel standing behind her, pretty face alight with pleasure as she fiddled with Winter's hair. Morning sun spilled through from the veranda, reclining like a cat upon the rich carpets and warming the bedroom. It was a crisp spring morning, dew-studded, clear and perfect.

"Red hair is less rare in my homeland, though still unusual. Túiel believes it makes me stand out unnecessarily—I don't think she shall ever forgive me for not being dark."

Aeglossel ran gentle fingers through the thick, ruddy strands. "I think it is beautiful."

The girl began to gather up loose waves and pin them with small, jeweled clips. As Aeglossel worked, Winter's eyes drifted down to her own reflection.

Her face was split by the wide smile that she had inherited from her mother, blue-grey eyes twinkling in amusement. Thinking of the persistent reprimands Túiel had given her over the past week, Winter schooled her features to a more restrained expression of joy.

 _"_ _And once more, Lady Faenil, your smile extends from the west to the east! Temper yourself, girl."_

She couldn't resent her companion and advisor's comments. She often burst into laughter or grinned like a Cheshire cat before she paused to think. Staring at the mirror, she practiced a decorous smile.

"Are you to be in the Houses of Healing all day today, milady?"

"I believe so, Aeglossel. If I attempt to depart before due time, I am sure Ioreth shall find something to occupy me." Winter took the opportunity to practice her smiling. "Do we use 'occupy' in Minas Tirith?" she inquired, after a moment.

Aeglossel's laugh tinkled out. "Yes, milady. Though you might use 'engage'; many ladies of the court have taken to using it."

"So it's a buzzword?"

Aeglossel's brows knitted together in bemusement. "A—buzzword?"

"Oh," Winter grinned, completely forgetting her attempts to rein in her animated expressions. "Forgive me. It means it is a popular word."

"Ah."

Her maid fell silent for a time, lips pursed as she devoted herself to fastening Winter's hair.

"You have been swift to adopt our manner of speaking, Lady Faenil."

"I had a good deal of time to practice," Winter replied, a little vaguely. "And I must, now, else I stand out and expose… things."

 _Very articulate. Well-put._

 _Look, just because I speak like a poet aloud doesn't mean my manner of speaking has been completely rewired!_

"There, it is done." Aeglossel stepped back and smiled. "Does it please you, milady?"

Winter tilted her head to survey the girl's handiwork. Her hair had been swept up into an elegant wrap at the back of her head, and twinkled slightly with a tasteful adornment of the jeweled clips.

"It is lovely, Aeglossel." She turned on the stool and met her maid's gaze directly. "Thank you."

Aeglossel flushed a becoming pink. She could only have been seventeen or eighteen years, a beautiful slip of a girl with bright eyes and fair skin. Beneath her doe-like appearance was a great deal of intelligence, however. Despite her youth, Aeglossel had been recruited by the Arda Exchange Program as a field-worker, and Winter found her to be an invaluable mine of wisdom. She was ladylike and keenly aware of decorum, as well as possessing a knack for the duties of a lady's maid.

 _She'll make a great Túiel, someday._

"You ought to dress, milady."

Winter nodded, ceasing her staring and daydreaming. "Yes."

Aeglossel moved to Lady Faenil's wardrobe, and plucked out a simple gown. It was a dress of grey, looser than the more aristocratic garments Winter possessed, and comprised her "uniform" for working in the Houses.

Winter slipped off her pale green robe and allowed Aeglossel to help her into the dress.

"Have you received news of your companions ere their departure, Lady Faenil?"

Busy trying to protect her hair from being mussed, Winter did not reply for a moment. However, her frame stiffened and her lips formed a severe line.

"No."

"I am sure they shall compose letters to thee soon. Lord Lachlan, in particular, appeared sorrowful in parting."

Notwithstanding the vein of teasing in Aeglossel's voice, Winter's face hardened and she snapped.

"Lord Lachlan is—" _an idiot,_ she finished internally.

Aeglossel's countenance fell a little. Caught between guilt and anger, Winter turned her back to the maid and pretended to busy herself with something on the dressing table.

 _Confound Lachie, ruining my morning…_

* * *

 _"_ _Got everything?"_

 _Lachie glanced up from his orderly packs and smiled half-heartedly. "I believe so."_

 _Winter nodded, lacking words. The pair stood in the library, which had been requisitioned as a group sleeping area whilst Lady Faenil's retinue remained in Minas Tirith. The rest of the contingent were busy over luncheon when Winter had slipped away in search of her absent friend. She'd found him fiddling mindlessly with his bags._

 _Bewildered by the churning in her stomach, Winter seated herself in one of the library's reading chairs with a near-flawless façade of indifference. Lachie's blue eyes touched hers. She began to inspect her fingernails with pointed avoidance._

 _"_ _Win—"_

 _Not glancing up, Winter replied, "Yes?"_

 _Lachie's firm tread crossed the library carpet until he stood directly before her. She continued to fiddle with her hands, emphatically eluding eye contact._

What… what on earth are you doing, Winter Newhall?

 _A moment later, Lachie's hand reached out to stop Winter's distracted movements. His hand clasped hers. Involuntarily, she glanced up._

 _Cautiously, as if testing the waters, Lachie drew her to her feet. Winter obliged, thoughts silenced and her breathing tremulous. Once on her feet, she found herself standing almost chest-to-chest with the young man. Her mind moved lethargically._

 _Winter had slowly lost her ability to articulate her feelings concerning Lachie. Half the time, his guileless expression communicated nothing more than platonic friendship; in other moments, the care and longing which punctured his gaze caused her heart to thud._

When was the last time you fell for a guy like this one? _an internal critic had scoffed._

Not helpful!

You should—

 _The thoughts ground to a halt._

 _Things had only gotten worse over the past few days in Minas Tirith. Lachie was polite, never overstepping bounds. A little clingy, yes, but always thoughtful._

And now, you're falling for him.

 _"_ _May I kiss you, Win?"_

 _She'd nodded. She'd_ nodded.

 _All her carefully-laid plans and aspirations for her foray into Middle-earth, her cultivated emotional distance, her largely-undisclosed past… everything crumbled._

This was not part of the game plan, Winter!

 _Relief inscribed on his features, Lachie had pulled her even closer then. She was pressed flush against him. One hand rested on her lower back, securing her, whilst the other wrapped around the side of her jaw and into her hair._

 _Lightly stubbled lips pressed themselves onto hers with growing boldness. Coming to herself a little, Winter was amazed to find herself plastered to Lachie's chest with his mouth exploring hers. It was, admittedly, rather pleasant._

 _Leaning closer, Winter responded with enthusiasm._

Why does this feel right?

You're an idiot, Winter.

 _They parted for a moment as Winter readjusted herself, arms looping upwards around Lachie's neck to draw him closer. Then the taste of his lips once more, scorching breath mingling as his mouth opened onto hers. She lost track of where his hands were, travelling around her back and waist. His kisses moved from her lips across her jaw and down onto her neck. Winter moaned softly, intoxicated. Her body was held tight to his, and she felt the heat seeping from him as he continued to trail kisses around her neck._

 _As he returned to her lips, Winter's pulse thudded uncontrollably._

Oh gosh, this is dangerous…

 _He did not cease until Winter's knees were weak and she knew the feel of his mouth as well as her own. Then his passion subsided until they stood, forehead to forehead, their lips barely parted._

Well.

 _Lachie gave a laugh as tenuous as Winter felt. "Sorry."_

 _Flabbergasted, she'd pressed her mouth to his again. "Sorry? You don't kiss a girl that well and then apologise, idiot."_

 _"_ _Right," he grinned, withdrawing a little further. "Well."_

 _"_ _Mm." Winter found that she could not meet his eyes after that—that… did one call it a make-out in Middle-earth?_

 _"_ _And now that I've discomfited the chaste Lady Faenil," Lachie teased, taking a step back and moving to her side so he could sit on the couch, "may we talk a little?"_

 _Winter nodded mutely, flopping down beside him. She knew she ought to feel acutely uncomfortable, or wildly joyful, or—_ something _. Instead, she felt slow and numb and rather dazed. Lachie seemed to have no reservations, however. His hand sought hers, and he began to play with her fingers._

 _"_ _I shall miss you, Win."_

 _"_ _I'll miss you too," came the automatic reply._

 _"_ _You know we can write, while we're here?"_

 _She nodded again, factual information helping to reinvigorate her thoughts. "Yeah. Apparently letters should only take like a week to go back and forth because they use the teleportation stations."_

 _Pause._

 _"_ _You'll write, then?"_

 _"'_ _Course."_

 _Lachie squeezed her hand._

 _"_ _Thank you."_

 _For a few minutes they sat in silence. Winter could not shake the sluggishness in her mind, though it had lessened somewhat. She knew she ought to be doing something entirely different, rather than sitting like a lovesick princess and allowing Lachie to make all the conversation. To her disgust, she simply couldn't formulate thoughts well enough to take charge. So she let him continue to ramble about all they would both do and see over the coming months._

 _"_ _I know I've asked you this before, Win, but I just—well… is everything all right?"_

 _The question cut through the fogginess in her mind like a razor._

 _"_ _Huh?"_

 _Lachie shifted in his seat so that his body was angled toward her. His gaze raked her face. "Why is it that I never know what you're thinking? You always seem to look_ angry _underneath. It's hard to see, and you hide it, but there are moments where I just can't tell. Someone will make a remark and suddenly you're—colder than a stone. Will—will you tell—I mean… I wouldn't—why must—you obviously care—you can't kiss me like that and say you—well, you… I mean…" Winter watched him with an icy stare as he continued. He began to falter under her gaze. "Why do you try and convince the world you just don't care?"_

 _It was as if a siren began to shriek in her mind._

Why on earth do you think I warned you against this, Winter Martha Elizabeth Newhall?!

Look, you can say I told you so later.

 _Horror engulfed her like a wave. He was close—close—close, too close, far too close. Anger mingled with her fear at letting him enter._

How _could_ you?!

 _It was not anger at Lachie—he didn't know any better—but, rather, anger at herself. Fury. Rage. Wrath. She could barely give name to the vehemence she felt towards her own careless behaviour. She'd been bowled over by the flood of feeling she discovered in her move to Middle-earth. Her brain had rationalised it, reminding her that it was merely because she "cared". Apparently, opening her heart to this Arda experience had brought with it a deluge of other feelings Winter had no desire for—memories of her childhood had become like nightmares. She'd been forced to keep a tight leash on her mind, preventing herself from wandering into those painful memories that had been so easy to restrain when she'd wrapped herself in apathy. Whenever they slipped past her guard, she defended herself with iron force._

 _And, somehow, Lachie had slipped past her guard. Physical passion and girlish infatiuation had numbed her to his advances as he'd coaxed her outwards with kisses._

And now, you've let yourself fall completely into this silly emotional state you've always professed to despise! _Well done,_ idiot.

Geez, Lachie. Couldn't have just left it at the kiss, could you?  
 _That made her irate, too._

Oh, _goodness_ , how did it take me this long to notice?

 _Annoyance burning on her face, Winter looked back to Lachie. He was watching with something akin to fear._

 _"_ _Win, I'm sorry—"_

 _She didn't want to hurt him, not really. But he wouldn't get closer. He was already dangerously near. She'd been blind._

 _"_ _It's fine." Her words were clipped. "There is nothing wrong with me."_

 _Lachie treated the lie with the contempt it deserved._

 _"_ _Win, you can't expect me to—"_

 _"_ _Yes, I can." Regathering her steely composure, Winter smiled with dangerous control. "There is nothing to discuss. I'll miss you, but we'll write. Now, I better go say goodbye to the others, or people will start suspecting." She leaned close to him, brushing her lips on his, and moved directly to the door. As she lingered on the threshold, Lachie's eyes followed her._

 _Reproachful. Disappointed._

"I know you're lying," _his look said._

 _She wouldn't deny it. Nor would she spurn his friendship, for he mattered to her. There would be no more kissing, that was for sure—it rattled her, stopped her from realising what was truly going on._

 _But, for the first time in weeks, Winter realised how greatly she had missed that impenetrable shield she wrapped herself in. It lay beneath her bright smiles and cheery looks, screening her from prying. More than that, it cut off those sensitive feelings she so abhorred._

 _Winter was back._

 _With a last smile at Lachie, painful in its coolness, she withdrew._

* * *

"Milady?"

Winter turned from the dressing table, having selected a pair of simple earrings and slipped them through her lobes. The poignancy in the memory brought forth a flush of anger.

 _You're not supposed to let that get to you anymore, Win! Focus._

 _Ok._

"Yes?"

When she met Aeglossel's gaze, her countenance was smooth and bright once more. She'd fought hard to stay afloat since Lachie's departure. Looking back, she realised she'd been out of her depth since her first few days in Middle-earth. For the first time since then, she had regathered herself into the cool, determined Winter she was familiar with. It felt good to be in control again. It was much better to toss aside the moments of weakness.

Better not to care.

 _And I'll just have to get better at brushing it off when people mention Lachie again. He's nice, but you don't care. You can't. Good kisser. Nice guy. Friend. That's it. You're done with this emotional rubbish._

Aeglossel seemed thankful to see any hints of displeasure swept away from Winter's visage.

"Shall I descend and inquire if your breakfast is ready?"

"Yes please," Winter nodded. "Don't trouble yourself to come back up. You may ring the bell for me, and I shall come on my own."

"As you wish, milady." Aeglossel curtseyed and departed.

Winter occupied herself with a few last checks to her appearance. Aeglossel had done wonders with her hair, and her gown was clean and pressed. Draping a cloak on her bed in readiness for her walk to the Houses, she strode out onto the veranda to admire the morning view with her few moments of free time.

She'd won. And she would keep winning. It didn't matter. She was still rather exasperated with herself for coming to care for him so quickly, letting him past her guard. However, it was done, and he was gone. She wouldn't be subject to such a mistake again. As such, she allowed herself to drink in the view of Pelennor with a light heart.

The fields about Minas Tirith had lost none of their beauty since Winter first arrived. It was easy to enjoy them, though she was not awestruck as she had been earlier. There was admiration for the picturesque landscape, but none of the childlike wonder. Her chest felt… _stiff_ , as if the feeling couldn't quite get past an obstruction.

No, that was absurd. It was exquisite here. Magnificent. Glorious. Outstanding. Yes. It was true, so she must feel it.

She frowned slightly at the possibility that she didn't feel quite as reverential as she should. Before she could explore the thought further, the bell attached to the wall near her door tinkled. Eager to sate her appetite—Winter hadn't quite become accustomed to a long morning toilet before she was allowed to eat—she grabbed her cloak and descended to the breakfast room.

Inside were Túiel, Badhor and Aeglossel. The maidservant took Winter's cloak and withdrew, whilst Badhor seated her in her chair.

"Good morning, Lady Faenil," Túiel said, seating herself primly. "Did you rest well?"

"Very, thank you. And yourselves?" Winter glanced between companion and _byrath_.

Both nodded as Badhor slipped into his chair.

Badhor was a character Winter longed to know more of. The man was her _byrath_ , a form of traditional Gondorian butler or seneschal. He was responsible for managing Winter's estate, provided an official male escort when the need arose, and was a kind of general advisor in political matters. He was short for a man of Gondor, barely over six feet, with a thin face and a grandfatherly expression despite being sixty at most. Lady Faenil had little need of him as yet, not having attended any social functions. However, he was an experienced member of the Arda Exchange Program, and had already been coaxed to share some stories of previous exchange students. He was very witty and sharp, much to Winter's glee.

"You are ever lost in thought over your meals, milady," half-scolded Túiel, tapping the side of Winter's plate with her fingernail. "You are expected in the Houses in less than a full hour of the sun. Do not tarry."

"Sorry, Túiel." Winter turned to her breakfast plate, picking daintily at the dish before her. It was some kind of crepe filled with vegetables.

"You shall not want for activity in the coming days, Lady Faenil," remarked Badhor, swallowing a mouthful of his usual porridge—he seemed to eat nothing else. "Whilst in your homeland spring begins on the first day of the month, Gondor has not yet left winter behind. Tuilere approaches in less than a fortnight, and ere this occurs you are expected at two functions with other members of Lord Denethor's court."

Winter's forehead creased. "Tuilere? That is the celebration of spring's beginning, is it not?"

"Indeed."

"She ought to have enough to busy herself with her work in the Houses alone," remarked Túiel, firmly. "Though Healer Ioreth is convinced she ought not do long days as of yet."

 _I'm not complaining about the short hours—less time listening to dear Ioreth talk!_

"And yet," smiled Badhor, meeting the older woman's gaze, "she is a lady, and must become acquainted with those in the Lord Denethor's court. You shall see her made a healer soon enough, Túiel."

Túiel was very prim as she speared a piece of fruit with her fork.

"I am aware of this."

Winter chuckled inwardly at the pair of them. Túiel had explained that she and Badhor had worked together for many years now. Seeing their good-natured—and excessively restrained—disagreements was rather amusing. They were like an old, married couple who liked to bicker quietly over trivialities, such as which way the toilet roll was supposed to go.

 _Like Nanna and Pop._

She smiled—carefully, so as not to turn Túiel's ire upon herself.

"When am I expected to finish working in the Houses today?" Winter inquired, pouring herself a cup of her usual morning tea.

"You should not speak of 'finishing work', Lady Faenil, but of 'departing' or 'concluding'," Túiel reminded her, in her quiet, slightly exasperated way. Her sharp eyes lingered on Winter until she corrected herself.

"When might I expect to depart the Houses today?"

"Better, milady. Healer Ioreth should have no further use for you ere we reach the third hour after noon."

 _Three pm. Ok. Can do._

"And am I to be occupied this eve as well?"

"Nay," Túiel shook her head, then smiled sightly, "for Badhor has collected something which belongs to you. Lord Calaron explained to us that you could not bring the instrument you favour to Minas Tirith—the _banjo_ , as you call it; as such, he instructed us to acquire for you a harp. Tonight, you shall learn to play, for it is custom that a lady should have skill in music."

Winter's heart leapt. It had been gut-wrenching to leave her banjo behind in Caoloth. Still…

"Yet I do not play harp," she replied slowly.

Túiel smiled again. "Lord Calaron did not foresee any trouble in learning, and Aeglossel has some skill in this matter. She shall help you."

Winter blinked several times. She had not counted on having to learn an entirely new instrument, much less a harp. She'd heard those were tricky. However, she knew better than to protest, even after such a short time in Middle-earth. Túiel was kind, brisk, and efficient, but she was also not accustomed to protest or rebellion.

 _Guess I will be busy._

"Lady Faenil."

Winter repressed a jump at Túiel's low reprimand. She'd dozed off in thought once more, and her vegetable crepe was growing cool.

 _Awfully daydreamy today, aren't we?_

 _That's what thinking of Lachie will do to you, silly._

Túiel's gaze flipped rhythmically between her own plate and Winter's, as if to chide her, _"Hurry now, girl, you're slower than Badhor on the Citadel stairs!"_

Realising there was no benefit in irking her companion—despite the amusement this would bring—Winter finished her breakfast with the prim decorum of an aristocrat. Seeing she was finished eating, Aeglossel removed her plate and returned a few moments later from the kitchen with three warm, damp cloths.

According to Minas Tirith's customs, it was considered proper that warm cloths be produced after every meal. These were used by the guests to wipe their faces and hands in readiness for their departure. Winter accepted her towel from Aeglossel with a smile and proceeded to dab at any crumbs or grease about her lips.

Túiel glanced at the tall clock which graced the dining room in Lady Faenil's house.

"Forgive me, Badhor," she said to the _byrath_ , with a faint trace of apology in her voice. "We shall have to depart before you are done."

Badhor, who was still devouring porridge contentedly, nodded. "It is of no import, Túiel. You must ensure Lady Faenil is delivered to Healer Ioreth's charge in due time."

Túiel inclined her head in return, before beckoning that Winter rise. "In which case, we must be off. Our cloaks, Aeglossel."

The maid laid Badhor's warm cloth beside his place setting in readiness for later, before gliding out of the dining room once more. A moment following, both Winter and Túiel had wrapped themselves in cloaks and departed by way of the front door. There they met the two members of staff that had come to form Winter's regular escort. She smiled in greeting at them both, and received unusually animated expressions in return.

Unlike the rest of her team, these two guards were not native-born Gondorians. They were, in fact, people of Earth. Winter had tossed aside the Gondorian names they had given her, gleeful at being able to refer to them as "Will" and "Sam". She hadn't managed to convince them to call her Winter as of yet—but she was hopeful.

"Good morning, milady," they bowed. "Good morning, Túiel."

Túiel nodded slightly, leading Winter past them and out the gate. Both men blended in well, being very tall and dark. As they set out along the paved streets of Minas Tirith, Winter heard Sam cough. It was a nasty, wracking cough, reminding her of someone who had recently had the flu. She caught the sound of Will's soft inquiry—"Are you all right?"—and Sam's cheerful affirmative. Then, they were caught in the strings of people and Winter's attention was entirely diverted by her attempts to remain by Túiel's side.

The quiet of Winter's first walk to the Houses of Healing had been deceptive. Since then, she had marvelled at the steady winding crowd which filled even the upper levels of Minas Tirith, snaking between milliners and jewellers and the rich noble houses. It was neither a mass nor a mob, but rather a stately procession of rich folk and their servants—and nevertheless difficult to navigate.

These morning walks were a high point in Winter's days. Here, she could lose herself in sharp-eyed study of Minas Tirith's populace, eyeing lords and ladies with an appraising mind as Túiel directed them up to the sixth level.

 _It's still a little hard to imagine they're all real,_ Winter mused inwardly, caught between following Túiel and begrudgingly admiring a lavish morning gown of ivory satin worn by an aristocratic lady. _These people live here, in Minas Tirith, and that is all the life they know. This is their world, just as Earth is mine. Part of me keeps coming back to the idea that they must simply all be actors in a show—that they're not truly of Middle-earth._

It was an odd thought. Still, it busied her thoughts, and in spite of it all she possessed a keen interest in Minas Tirith's fashions. Seeing so many immaculately clad men and women made her glad for the cloak which masked her grey gown. The latter would announce her as a Healer to any who saw it, and there was no shame in such a uniform. Still, Winter's vanity did not allow her to _enjoy_ the simple grey, when she could have blended into the throng in a green dress of very gratifying extravagance. Fortunately, the cloak she wore was embroidered maroon wool, and Winter was fond of it. The cowl was currently pulled up to cover her hair.

As they neared the houses, the crowds dwindled. Túiel squinted upwards at the sky and slackened her pace. Winter had still not apprehended how her companion could read the time of day by the position of the sun, but she admired the skill nonetheless—especially if the verdict was that they were early.

Several minutes later, they approached the Houses. Winter had yet to see a more beautiful part of the White City. Where the lower levels were a series of snugly-packed buildings, the Houses were spacious and extensive. They encompassed a section of the southern side of the sixth level, stretching from its outer side to the lee of the wall which separated it from the seventh. The main wing fell in the centre, surrounded on all sides by verdant gardens in a gleeful waste of space. Gravel paths twisted about the luxuriant beds, alive with crocus and honeysuckle and a score of flowers Winter could not attribute names to.

The building itself was several storeys high, with broad windows and shaded porches extending from the lower floors. Balconies hugged the upper levels. A clear canal flowed out from beneath the wall behind, making a tour of the garden before it was channelled down to the fifth level to enliven a fountain. The entire structure was ensconced in the warm embrace of a creeping vine, which lent a softness to the overall image. It was, in Winter's opinion, in every way superior to the clinical sterility of the modern Earth hospital—and no less busy.

The quartet moved along a gravel path direct to the Houses' main entrance. Winter bemoaned the lack of opportunity to pluck some of the lilies from a nearby garden bed, but instead steeled herself to follow Túiel. Her mother had always had a garden bed full of lilies, though she'd never let Winter touch them.

 _As if they were more precious to her than—_

 _What did we say about letting thoughts run away with you?_

A moment later, they had come to the entrance hall, and a young pageboy had come to collect their cloaks.

Túiel's quick gaze fell upon Winter as the latter slipped down her hood. Túiel's eyes prophesied some kind of reprimand to the young Australian girl, who braced herself with a slight smirk tugging at her wide mouth.

"Lady Faenil, with your hair and cloak—all of you is red!"

 _Yep. Called it._

Despite all her resolutions to the contrary, Winter burst out laughing. Her fingers grasped the wine-coloured wool which was completed by her crown of flaming hair. She continued to grin as she unfastened the garment and passed it to the pageboy.

 _I am very, very red—but goodness Túiel, clearly no one ever taught you not to comment on a ginger's hair!_

"And I so hoped my hair could be considered auburn," Winter sighed, adopting a caricature of a pout and thinking of an equally ruddy-haired book heroine of her childhood.

 _Like Anne and Marilla all over again…_

Túiel pressed her lips together in disapproval, glancing about at the people who passed. "I do not know to what you are referring—" _Lucky for you!_ "—but are you insensible to the stares you receive, Lady Faenil? Red is not a quiet colour."

Winter gave a slight shrug. The majority of the time, she walked to the Houses of Healing with her head covered as was custom for a noble lady. In the shadow of her cowl, no one could easily observe the vibrancy of her hair. In the few instances she had gone abroad for leisure, she had been permitted to wear only a transparent veil. It barely dulled the cheerful red. In those moments she had been the object of many stares—and, truthfully, enjoyed the attention. Badhor recounted to her rumours of an exotic lady in Minas Tirith, flame-haired like her mother from the North, and exceptionally beautiful.

"Better to be stared at because I am unusual-looking than for breaking custom," Winter replied quietly. "Have I done anything amiss?"

Túiel's reply was rather begrudging, and she glanced furtively as several healers passed by. "No, milady."

Winter smiled. "Then I suppose we are not discovered, and all is well."

"Yes indeed, milady," agreed her companion, with far too much cheek for a real servant. Winter bit her cheek to prevent herself from galling Túiel any further. She was saved by the appearance of a fresh-faced healer's apprentice.

"Lady Faenil," nodded Gaerel, dropping into the slightest of curtseys and inclining her head in Túiel's direction. "Lady Ioreth expects us."

"Yes," Winter agreed. "Thank you, Túiel."

Containing her sarcasm admirably, Túiel curtseyed to her "mistress" and departed with Sam and Will in her wake.

As Winter followed Gaerel down the corridor, she sighed softly. Perhaps the main reason she accepted her unusual hair colour with equanimity was Ada Newhall. Her mother had worn it proudly, imperiously beautiful and utterly unapologetic for outshining every other woman in her presence. Winter's stomach twinged with mixed pride and regret.

 _And then she was disappointed to have me!_

Her heart fell a little. She could see her mother, as if she stood in an alcove nearby, shrouded in disapproval. Winter sighed with inward weariness.

 _Damn it, Winter! What did Abby tell you? When did your mother_ ever _tell you she was disappointed in you?_

 _She didn't_ , came the somnolent reply. _She just looked it, every day._

She sighed again.

 _Let's just hope to goodness I've put Túiel off hassling me about my hair ever again!_

Had it not been for Gaerel, Winter was certain she would've wandered off track in the minute it took for all those thoughts to flash before her mind's eye. She tended to lose herself in thought entirely, at times.

 _And you've got a job to do, so you just get yourself together now,_ came an uncompromising reprimand.

 _What, me, doing my duty? Mum'd have a heart attack,_ she replied, with a hint of her usual acridness.

"Do you know what you are to do today, Lady Faenil?"

Blinking slightly, Winter turned her head to observe Gaerel. The prim Gondorian woman kept her eyes forward, displaying her dainty profile. She was exquisite and unreachable—like the lilies in her mother's garden.

"Nay, Gaerel." Had Winter imagined the tightening of the other woman's lips when she'd referred to her as 'Lady Faenil'?

No reply.

She would have shrugged, except that she immediately thought of Túiel's reaction to such an expressive gesture.

 _Túiel would fall in love with Gaerel in an instant,_ Winter mused, feeling more cheerful as she surreptitiously scrutinised the other woman's face. It was more of a mask than a face, really.

Gaerel turned through a broad archway to the left—Ioreth's surgery, where she worked on new remedies and treated any particularly unwell patients.

Winter quenched her desire to grin as they entered. As irritating as Ioreth could be at times, she was also excessively amusing. Added to this was the fact that Winter simply couldn't give vent to her mirth, a fact which made things funnier; exploding with laughter every time Ioreth waggled her eyebrows in that maddening way would have Túiel in spasms of horror.

"Ah! It is Lady Faenil! And Gaerel," cried Ioreth, bursting forth from a side-chamber.

 _Do. Not. Laugh._

"Good morning, Ioreth." Gaerel curtseyed. Winter followed suit, glad to lower her head so her dancing eyes didn't betray her.

"Good morning, Ioreth."

"Good morning. Come, come," said the elder woman, flapping her hands as she flew back across the floor. "We have no time for formality."

Gaerel's face tightened slightly at this.

 _As little as I relish a Potter reference, she looks like she's about to shout, "My father will hear about this!"_

 _Winter, you're supposed to avoid laughing, not amuse yourself! Or stoop to Potter!_

 _C'mon, my internal commentary is all I've got in these moments. Besides,_ she grinned inwardly, _Potter and Gaerel seem about the same, In my books._

"You girls shall work in company today," Ioreth informed them, her thick brows knotted in concentration. "The Houses are in uproar, for Lord Boromir, Captain of the White Tower and Captain-General of Gondor's Armies, has returned from Osgiliath, and with him many men in need of tending. None are mortally wounded, and shall be quite safe in your hands. Yet we must not tarry."

This speech was punctuated by several pauses, some energetic eyebrow acrobatics, and much pacing.

 _Kind of like if you pencilled in eyebrows on a chicken and chased it around a kitchen._

Winter steeled her attention in Ioreth's direction whilst her longing to fall upon the ground and giggle waned.

"You shall attend to those on the second floor of the western wing," Ioreth informed them. She gathered up a scattered oddment of belongings from her remedies cupboard and tossed them into her apron. "Come, come; all the medicines you shall be needing are kept upstairs, and many await who shall be more comfortable after your ministrations." Then, she strode out of the surgery with near-frantic urgency, talking all the while. Gaerel followed with her usual stately indifference.

Winter found her spirits rising as they climbed a flight of stairs and progressed along another corridor to the western end of the Houses. She had spent the majority of the last week and a half learning the ropes, becoming acquainted with Gondorian medicine, and being instructed in treating some easy patients. There had been little to do with her physiotherapy qualification thus far, though a thorough understanding of anatomy stood her in good stead. Her supervisors had been pleased about that. Still, it didn't take a genius to mix herbal teas and poultices.

Now, however, it seemed they were to graduate to treating real patients!

 _Probably just men from the front who have a few scrapes, bruises, and maybe the odd broken rib._

 _Still!_

Ioreth halted abruptly before a door, and Winter narrowly avoided cannoning into her. She could feel Gaerel's silent disapproval as she struggled to control her long limbs and her mirth.

"Henceforth you shall be among soldiers," Ioreth informed them, solemnly. "Their talk is coarse, their manners often coarser, and their pride great. I shall be amongst you, tending to those whose need is direr. If you are in any doubt as to your treatments, call for myself or another Healer. You are maidens of Gondor and apprentice healers, and these men mean no harm to you. Yet if there is any cause for discomfort as to their behaviour, summon one of the elder women just as you would if your path for treatment unclear. Yes?"

Both young women nodded.

"You especially, Lady Faenil, for as a member of the Steward's Court, you must command respect."

Winter twinkled in reply. "I shall, Ioreth."

The healer whisked away as if she hadn't heard Lady Faenil's reply. Entering the room, she moved swiftly to a nearby table and unloaded the burden contained in her apron.

"Come, Lady Faenil; Gaerel; gather your things. Those with minor injuries await you at the far end of the room."

Winter scarcely heard this instruction. She was awed as she entered the long hospital ward, broken down both sides by beds and chairs. Today it was bustling, filled with ten times the men as there were beds. It was more like a drop-by clinic than a ward.

The entire room was lined with soldiers, glinting silver and black in their armour. Hair was matted, faces dark with various stages of beard growth, and clothing had been discarded to varying degrees in order to receive treatment. Some had been entirely undressed. One young man was sitting upon a bed near Winter's right hand, being tended by an experienced healer. He had been stripped so he wore only his loose breeches and boots, his chiselled torso exposed to full view. He blushed a hale shade of pink when he realised Winter was watching him, and hurriedly averted his eyes. Modesty was held in high regard in Gondor.

Realising she was staring, Winter turned to the place Ioreth had gestured at. There awaited the healer's kits, full of herbs, bandages and various other oddments they would require. Gaerel had already acquired hers, and was moving down the ward haughtily.

Winter hastened to join her, gathering her supplies and moving toward the busier end of the room. Here one older Healer was already at work, and Gaerel had joined her. The murmur of gravelly voices was louder at this end of the room. Winter felt a little awestruck as many pairs of eyes shifted toward her.

 _What was it you were saying before to Túiel about not minding stares?_

Much to her disgust, she knew she was just as pink as the bashful soldier at the other end of the ward.

 _C'mon. You massage old people for a living. You can handle chucking bandaids on a couple of hot warriors!_

So she stilled her features and moved to the opposite side of the room to where Gaerel was already at work.

Winter met the eyes of the first soldier she was to treat, and quailed slightly. She had had precious little time to observe Minas Tirith's soldiers since she'd seen them that first day. Up close, and wearing nothing more than a soft black tunic, they still managed to seem other-worldly and dignified.

 _And you've travelled twice as far as any of them, studied for probably five times as long—and you can box. You got this._

"Gi suilon," she said, standing before the first bed and gripping a façade of confidence about her like a blanket.

"Gi suilannon, rodel," the man upon the bed replied gravely, courteous in spite of a countenance which belied his pain.

 _Lachie did always tell you your Sindarin was too informal,_ she sighed.

 _And how did he know I'm a lady?_

 _Who else would you be, the only redhead in an entire city with jewels in your hair?_

 _Right._

Realising she was a little out of her depth, Winter's eyes travelled swiftly over the man. He had shed his armour, but it sat on the bed nearby. A few metres away on the next bed sat another knot of men, watching her intensely. These all wore identical chainmail and tunics, and seemed oddly interested in the proceedings. Upon closer inspection, Winter also noted that the man she stood before had a slightly different insignia upon his uniform. His helmet was also more ornate.

The information flashed back to her memory swiftly as she performed a lightning study of the design.

 _A Second Captain,_ she thought, with relief. _Guess it wasn't such a bad thing that Calaron tested me so rigorously on military ranks._

"Second Captain—?"

"Rostor." He lifted an eyebrow in a mild show of surprise at her knowledge.

"What ails you, Second Captain Rostor?"

He shifted so he turned to face her fully. It was then that Winter realised there was a misshapen lump on his low-hanging right shoulder, and discovered the source of his haggard expression.

"Your shoulder is dislocated," she said without thinking, placing all her goods on the bed beside him and stepping forward. Fortunately, she halted before she reached out to touch him.

"It will not move, milady."

One of the soldiers on the next bed had spoken. He was younger than his Second Captain, who looked to be about thirty-five, and his face was lined with worry. It took mere seconds to grasp the situation, whilst Rostor looked acutely miserable. He was not someone who liked attention, she perceived, as he sent the young man-at-arms a stern look.

"It is of no great import, milady," grumbled Rostor, moving as if to rise. His face hardened in well-masked pain as he did so.

"Please, sir, sit," Winter urged, concerned.

 _Goodness knows how long it's been out of joint, he hasn't told anyone, and now it's giving him hell! And that young man—looks kinda like him, a brother maybe?—is worried, and his company's all here to check that he's really all right!_

Rostor begrudgingly lowered himself to the bed. She moved about him swiftly, attempting to make him comfortable as his arm hung awkwardly. This she propped with a pillow.

Winter knew what to do. She was almost _confident_ about executing the manoeuvre; if Rostor had managed the pain for this long, he would be far less squeamish than her last patient had been as she popped his shoulder back into place. Nevertheless, Winter was not eager to alert either Ioreth or Gaerel to the severity of the injury. By rights, Rostor should have been down at the more acute end of the ward.

 _Not going to give up a chance to show off, are you?_

 _Nope. And anyway, as a real-life physio, I'm probably better qualified for dislocations than even Ioreth herself. But she doesn't know that._

"Was there not a healer amongst you upon the field who could have treated this?" she inquired, beginning to move Rostor's armour aside. It stank like BO.

 _Ah, the nitty-gritty life of a Gondorian Second-Captain._

"Yes, milady," Rostor admitted. "Though for an injury such as this, the Captain-General desired that I wait until a Healer could attend me."

 _Ah. Boromir. Well at least we know he's not an idiot._

"Captain-General Boromir is wise," Winter replied, allowing herself a small smile. "I shall hopefully relieve you of some discomfort presently."

For an instant, Rostor's gaze flickered to where the chatty Ioreth was bustling about the ward. Winter stared back at the Second Captain, daring him to question her capability. Seeing the challenge upon her face, he seemed surprised once more. His lips curved in a ghost of a smile.

"I believe you shall."

 _Winter: 1. Rostor: 0._

She whisked about to face the ensemble of watching men-at-arms. "I shall need assistance, someone strong. It's not easy to treat such an injury." Winter studied each of the half-dozen men.

"You aid her, Acharndir, for you shall not become as squeamish as young Aearonion," chuckled a greying man of middle years. The youngster Aearonion, who had piped up in his anxiety, scowled at him, whilst a third individual rose and moved to Winter's side.

"What do you require, milady?" Archandir inquired mildly.

Winter paused, choosing her words carefully. She'd never really considered how to phrase modern medical terminology in the cadence of Gondor.

"We must move his arm back into its place," she said, pursing her lips. "However, it requires some force, and we must not harm him further. If it is incorrectly placed, he may lose feeling in his arm, so we must be careful."

Rostor frowned heavily at this. Once more he scrutinised Winter's face— _Noting how young I am, probably—_ her posture and the small jewels which glinted upon her hair.

 _I'm a young lady playing nurse. No, really._

"However, first I must ascertain if there are any breaks, and administer your Second Captain something to dull the pain." Winter said this to her helper, who nodded wordlessly. She moved to her kit bag, eternally grateful she'd sought to identify Minas Tirith's anaesthetics within the first few days of her training. The idea of treating people without some form of pain relief made her sick to the stomach.

 _Ideally, we'd have an x-ray done before I even attempt this_. _Way too possible that he's damaged something near the socket, but I guess this is all I can do._

 _And if it goes wrong, and Ioreth finds out?_

 _…_ _It won't._

Winter gathered her supply of drugs and tipped them into a cup which rested on Rostor's table. Adding some water from a jug, she swirled it about and passed it to the Second Captain.

"I am sorry to leave you for any length of time, but this medicine will take a half hour to take effect. I shall not do anything until that point. Is there any numbness in your arm at present?" Winter heard Rostor's wordless murmur in the negative as he drank the contents of the cup. "Good. If you still have feeling in your arm, it is likely not serious. Are there any others in need of treatment in the meanwhile?"

Several soldiers—for more had gathered about as Winter treated their Second-Captain—professed minor injuries, and Winter began to apply sterilising agents and bandages to the odd bump and scrape. It was simple work—anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of First Aid on Earth could have done it—and she was soon done.

Rostor's countenance appeared far more relaxed when she turned back to him not long after. Winter was unsure entirely how long had elapsed—the ward had no clock—but it seemed roughly half an hour. At any rate, Rostor was beginning to get the airy look of someone who'd just had a strong dose of morphine.

"Second Captain?" Winter asked quietly, leaving her latest patient to admire his fresh bandage and returning to her most troublesome charge.

Rostor grunted. "Let us proceed."

Winter placed her other things aside and stood before Rostor. Glancing up quickly, she saw that Gaerel and the other Healer had moved along the ward already. The qualified Healers were also amply occupied at the other end of the ward.

Winter breathed.

Today, she would not be a disappointment—to anyone.

Nevertheless, her earlier confidence had been eroded as time had passed. Her stomach was twisted in knots lest she do something wrong.

She breathed again and gathered herself.

"Second Captain Rostor, sevin dhâf maetha le?"

It was the same question she had asked of each and every patient.

It also bespoke her status as a lady.

A healer of common station would simply inquire in the Common Tongue if they might treat the patient's injuries. However, Winter was required—as Lady Faenil—to voice this request in Sindarin. Traditionally, this pertained to the courting rituals of the nobility; a Lord or Lady must ask in the Gondorian Elvish dialect whether they might touch the one they courted. In the setting of the Houses, it was merely a perfunctory query as to whether Winter could touch her patient. When treating the men-at-arms, Winter had had to repeat such a request in the Common Tongue as well, for many spoke little to no Sindarin. Rostor, as a Second-Captain, was required to learn it. As such, he replied smoothly.

"Ben iest gîn."

Winter nodded sharply. _Right._

From a distance, she heard herself instructing Archandir to wash his hands. When there was naught left to do but begin, Winter stepped forward and laid her hand on Rostor's shoulder.

 _Capable fellow, if he's already a Second-Captain in his thirties. Shrewd. Strong. Pain tolerance of an elite gymnast. Not bad-looking. Well-respected._

His shoulder was warm beneath the thin black tunic. Winter's hands moved tentatively across the joint, trying not to cause the man undue pain. His shoulder was a knot of muscle and tendons twisted badly out of shape. The painkillers had done their duty, however; he did not so much as flinch as Winter began to explore the damage with greater boldness.

After ten minutes of careful investigation, she sighed with relief.

"There is nothing broken," she announced softly. Archandir evidently related this quiet information to the other men, for they began to chatter far more happily upon hearing this news.

 _Still, it's inflamed like crazy because he didn't ice it._

"Was your arm secured for the journey back from Osgiliath?"

Rostor nodded. "Lord Boromir requested it be placed in a sling."

 _Thank God._

 _You'll have to attempt a closed reduction and just hope that there's nothing impeding it._

 _And pray that we get it over and done with before Ioreth notices._

The Healer-women had met Winter's gaze several times already, when she had been obediently treating minor wounds.

 _Just ten minutes would be great._

"Let's give this a go," she muttered quietly, plucking the sheet off the end of the bed. "Archandir, might you clear the bed? Rostor, you shall have to take off your tunic."

The Second Captain, happy in his bleary haze of painkillers, did so with only a slight wince. Winter was gobsmacked after the bashful display of the earlier shirtless soldier.

 _Clearly hard-core drugs reduce your inhibitions, even in Gondor._

She helped Rostor remove the tunic from his useless arm and laid it carefully aside. Whilst Archandir finished his task, Winter looped the sheet like a rope around Rostor's armpit so the ends extended past his head and instructed him to lie down. Lifting his unclad arm left forth another waft of male sweat.

 _That I don't think I'll ever get used to._

"Ready, my lady," Archandir announced.

 _Not "Healer"? Interesting._

"Thank you. Might you stand at the head of the bed and grasp the ends of the sheet? Yes, thank you. I shall pull on Captain Rostor's arm, whilst you pull in the other direction upon the sheet. You shall provide traction as I attempt to reduce the spasm in his muscle and allow the shoulder to return to its place."

"Don't watch, Aearonion," jibed the older man again, unshakably cheerful.

 _Or breathe,_ Winter wanted to put in. _Rostor smells worse than a Byron Bay supermarket._

Ignoring the stench of unwashed bodies, Winter grasped hold of Rostor's hand and wrist. Archandir positioned himself obediently at the head of the bed, holding the sheets in roughened hands.

 _Gosh, I hope I'm strong enough for this._ Her stomach turned. It was no mean feat to pull a shoulder back into place.

Turning to the right, Winter gave one last look toward where Ioreth worked. The Healer-woman had seen her, and was watching in puzzlement.

 _Ah, dear. We're in for it._

"Archandir, you merely need to counter the force of my pulling," Winter informed him, bracing herself against the bed and beginning to lean into her task. Rostor's arm lay almost alongside his body, whilst Winter started to pull against it. Archandir responded, steading his superior officer with his weight on the sheet.

"Lady Faenil?" came an inquiring call.

Winter applied further weight to Rostor's arm.

 _Come on, come on!_

Rostor groaned softly as the pressure increased. Archandir gripped his sheets grimly. Footsteps clattered down the aisle of the ward. A moment later there was a sickening _pop_ sound and Rostor gasped.

 _It worked._

 _Yeah, and the man didn't scream. If all the men of Minas Tirith are made of this stern stuff, I'm in for an easy job._

Ioreth arrived milliseconds later.

"Lady Faenil, what manner of injury are you treating? You should—" Her tirade was cut surprisingly short as Winter turned to face her. Triumph was written on her features as she glanced between the Healer and Rostor. The Second Captain was smiling—a small one, certainly, but compared to the impassive faces of the other Gondorians it was a positive grin—and Archandir helped him sit up. The other men-at-arms looked collected but relieved, whilst Aearonion had left his post on the bed and moved to Rostor's side in a surprisingly animiated flurry. The captain did not attempt to move his arm, but the relief from pain was obvious.

Winter dropped into a rather smug curtsey.

"A dislocated shoulder, Healer Ioreth. The shoulder moved easily back into place. I believe Second Captain Rostor is greatly better now."

The Healer's hazel eyes— _unusual colour, that_ —were wide with astonishment.

"You have treated this, Lady Faenil?"

 _Oh. Didn't think about that, did we? Oops._

Winter lowered her eyes demurely. "I have dealt with numerous such injuries, upon my father's estate. We have no healer-women, and I have treated similar wounds in times of need."

Ioreth quirked a bushy eyebrow. Then, "I must inspect the patient." She bustled forward, shooing away Rostor's men-at-arms to inspect the shirtless Second Captain. Winter deemed this an appropriate time to retire, and hid a satisfied smile in her kit.

 _That could have gone all kinds of bad. Lucky it was a simple dislocation._

Pleased with her efforts, Winter nodded in farewell to some of Rostor's companions and proceeded down the ward. As she did so, she met Gaerel's stony gaze. The implacable girl looked almost _sour._

Winter's heart danced a jig.

 _Her father will_ _definitely_ _hear about this._

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 **Gi suilon – I greet you (informal)**

 **Gi suilannon, rodel – I greet you, lady (formal)**

 **Sevin dhâf maetha le – May I touch you (bad grammar, I translated myself)**

 **Ben iest gîn – As you wish (formal)**

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE**

 **Hey again friends!**

 **Chapter 8 is here. Sorry it's been such a wait; I've been flat-out with uni stuff but I did this in tiny dribs and drabs and then sat down this afternoon for a good 5 hours and pumped out the rest.**

 **Also, it's exceptionally long. Close to 10,000 words. However, I didn't want to split it up because it's all one day, and I challenged myself to attempt a scene which flowed from one to the next rather than jumping around too much (like the last chapter).**

 ** _Please_ feel free to leave a review, I love getting them and I'd really like to learn where I can improve. Especially regarding Winter's character and the other OC's we've introduced (there's a lot, I know - sorry!).**

 **Anyway, hope to hear from you and have a great week everyone. x**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 - Boromir**

* * *

 _8_ _th_ _March, 3007_

Winter rubbed at her cheek with the back of her hand. As she did so, her nostrils were assaulted with the tangy scent of the herb she was busy slicing.

 _Smells like coriander,_ she winced, letting her hand drop back to the stone benchtop.

She was trapped, trapped like an animal in this small cellar-like room. This room was tucked amidst the surgeries, wards and resident rooms rather like an afterthought. It was window-less, stuffy, and lined with shelves. All along its narrow length were stored jars of herbs, bottles and canisters for the use of the Healers. There was a larger storeroom in another part of the Houses for bandages and yard goods, but the vast majority of the medicines and herbs were kept secreted away in this slender crack between two walls.

 _It's a wonder they haven't devised something more efficient than this. Two can barely pass one another in opposite directions!_

Winter squinted toward the far end of the room. It was some twenty metres distant, coated on both sides by deep shelves. Glancing back to her task, she sighed again.

After her stunt with Rostor's arm yesterday, Winter had been assigned herbal preparation duty. It didn't take a genius to realise she was, effectively, in the 'naughty corner'.

Ioreth had blustered about in her verbose manner, never scolding, but professing amazement in a dozen different terms. Finally, she'd wrapped up her bewildered soliloquy with, "You have done well, girl. And tomorrow, you shall do just as well preparing medicines for the store cupboard."

And that was how Winter found herself slicing plants in a dim, dry room full of medicines from another world.

 _Might have envisioned things slightly different after I successfully reset a nasty dislocation. Doubt Ioreth could've managed such a feat, crazy old—_

She froze. Footsteps sounded on the flagstones outside the store cupboard—and then passed by. She relaxed, having no desire to speak to anyone at this moment. Very few people ventured here in the middle of the day. Most collected their stores in the morning so they were well-stocked for their rounds. All of the Healers and their apprentices were tied up dealing with the influx of soldiers. The majority had been treated the day before, but several—including Rostor—required a kind of "follow-up" appointment. The busyness had the poor Warden of the Houses rather flustered.

 _I wish I could give Rostor another look-over_. _He really needs a physio rehabilitation plan, that arm is going to give him hell for a few days. Especially if, as I suspect, he'll go straight back to using it._

That was too much to hope for, she supposed. Especially with Túiel's ire. Technically, Winter had broken no protocol. She had behaved according to Gondorian custom—even her companion would admit that. Nor had she started any undue rumours, except of a confident and capable red-headed lady-healer. This she had heard through Badhor. For, surprisingly, Badhor's job was not merely that of a _byrath_ , but a kind of spymaster. He scouted rumours in order to pre-emptively avoid trouble for the Arda Exchange Program.

She had discovered this the previous night at dinner. Túiel had reacted with horror as Winter told her tale. This persisted despite Badhor's gleaming eyes as he reported on the happy rumours which flew about in the upper levels of the city. Winter had been rather flattered with the reports, as well as surprised by the speed and accuracy of the gossip. There was nothing amiss—no voices of suspicion or scorn at any impropriety. That had filled her with relief, countering a growing fear that she'd seemed _too_ confident in her role.

 _"_ _She shall make a good Healer for us yet, Túiel," Badhor had grinned, more broadly than Winter had ever seen upon the face of a Gondorian._

Túiel had topped this by covering her face with her hands in exasperation.

Winter couldn't quite ascertain why Túiel had been in the throes of despair about it all. Ioreth was perplexed and relegated Winter to simple tasks. It wasn't precisely a punishment—she hadn't done anything wrong—but rather a way to occupy her for a day or two and avoid any potential disasters. It was hardly enough to spell catastrophe.

 _Can you blame Ioreth? She doesn't know you're a university graduate. And she'll probably want you out of her hair for a bit while she works this all out._

 _No, that's true. But Túiel does._

 _Túiel_ , came a surprisingly lucid thought, _simply gets in a flap about anything which other people notice._

Realising she'd wandered off in imaginings, Winter continued slicing the pungent herbs. That wise internal voice was right. Túiel's panic would blow over. Ioreth would talk her ear off tomorrow, and allow her to go back to rounds without hesitation. Badhor would monitor the attention she had received. In fact, he believed Winter's calm treatment of one of Gondor's beloved Second Captains would only improve her standing in Denethor's court.

 _"_ _Just do not draw more attention to yourself," Badhor had told her seriously, whilst Túiel was busy with Aeglossel in the next room. "At present, you hold favour, but only a moderate amount of interest. The Lords of the City shall express their gratitude, and you shall be in good company. If you were to step forward once more, to draw their eyes upon you in greater measure—then trouble should arise. Then, perhaps, Lord Denethor would give you more than a perfunctory glance—and that is what we must avoid, what Túiel fears." He'd reached out and squeezed her shoulder then, noting her downcast expression. "Do not be ashamed, child. You did well indeed. From now on, follow the instructions given you, and err on the side of caution. That is the motto of the Arda Exchange Problem—do well, but not so well that you draw too much attention from your betters."_

And that, Winter knew, was why she would never meet Denethor or Boromir or Faramir. It was far too risky for someone from Earth to become close to principal individuals in Middle-earth's history. Too much might change. Winter could mingle freely with many of the nobles, but her interactions were strictly monitored, as was her acquaintance list.

Badhor's words were also the reason Túiel was flittering about over Winter's quasi-fame.

 _She's concerned, and doesn't want me to dig myself a hole and expose the Program. If I were to step out of line now, even having not really done anything wrong, I could spell disaster for everyone._

 _Túiel just doesn't want me to disappoint her._

 _There you go. Letting people down again._

Winter dropped the small knife she was wielding with a clatter.

 _Enough. It's done. You meant well, something went wrong. Túiel's a worry wart, Badhor's patted you on the back and told you to sit tight for a few weeks. Now finish cutting up this foul stuff, and get to work on the catnip._

She'd never been handy with a knife, and it took Winter several more minutes to finish dicing the fragrant herb. Wrinkling her nose again—she'd always hated coriander or anything vaguely reminiscent of it—she scooped it into a jar and sealed it. Moving to the left, she pressed several times on the small water pump. Liquid poured forth into a small hollow in the stone benchtop. Winter rinsed her fingers before it flowed away through the open plughole, and moved to place the herb at its home on one of the far shelves.

Frowning in the dim light, she crouched down where she believed it belonged, straining to read the spidery labels. As she knelt on the flagstones, squinting, she heard footsteps outside the storage room once more. This time they did not pass, but the door handle turned and light spilled forth as it opened.

The sudden influx of brightness allowed Winter to locate the herb's place. Satisfied, she plonked it on the shelf and rose to greet the newcomer. Standing before the door, she could not identify the figure beyond that it was an exceedingly tall man—well over six feet—who walked a little gingerly beneath the lower ceiling.

Wishing she could see better, Winter moved forward. The man's outline indicated some form of armour—a soldier, then—and that he evidently did not belong in this part of the Houses of Healing.

"Your pardon, sir," Winter said, at length, when the man did not speak. "I believe you have lost your way."

"No indeed, miss," came a gravelly reply, and the figure stepped forward.

Winter also progressed toward him.

 _Who is this blundering…? Also, I am not a miss! I am a Lady!_

"Please, sir, this is the storage cupboard," Winter said slowly. "Only Healers are permitted to enter."

She moved another step.

The man chuckled. He was gargantuan, huge in every sense. His laugh was deep. His size also belied his swiftness; with a confident movement, he took three strides forward and slipped deftly past Winter.

Winter gaped in indignation.

 _This is the last thing I need, letting a stranger break into the medicines!_

"Sir," she tried once more, attempting to sound commanding without breaking the character of Lady Faenil.

She pirouetted and followed him now deeper into the storage room. Without the sun at his back, she realised he was clad in a simple tunic of black over his chainmail. His armour and clothing were otherwise unremarkable. Inky hair fell to his shoulders in a blunt cut, and a slight beard coated the clean-cut jaw. In the dark, Winter could not determine his eye colour— _wild guess, grey?_ —but she could easily observe his strong brow, the straight nose and handsome face of a young man in his twenties.

"Sir…"

The man, who was now kneeling in front of a collection of mild pain relievers, sighed in exasperation and turned to her.

"Young woman, you must not fear. There is nothing amiss; I have an understanding with the staff. I shall not trouble you long. Go back to your duties as herbalist-in-chief, by all means." His tone was not biting, but it certainly dwelt in the same neighbourhood.

Winter bristled inwardly and spoke before her better judgement could halt her.

"Every liar claims they have an understanding with the staff. I am no fool."

The man froze with a jar in his hand as Winter continued recklessly. Her annoyance rose with each word, built upon the foundation of her earlier self-deprecation. The sharp-tongued Brisbane girl emerged with a violent flourish, chafed after being relegated to menial work in response to a success.

"I have precious little to do here today," she snapped, crackling with irritation, "and yet I shall do it well. I do not believe the Warden would be pleased to discover that a man-at-arms had crept inwards to raid his store cupboard! Do you believe I am no more intelligent than a—a dog? Or a horse? Less, perhaps, for a dog at least would raise the alarm if the stables were robbed!"

Winter did not realise the man was standing until she ceased. By this stage, he was upright not a metre from her, looming with something she could only call a practiced air of intimidation.

"You shall not speak so, Healer-woman," he retorted, voice low. "The Captain-General shall not endure these insults. I am permitted here, for the Warden has declared it. Speak no more foolish words to Boromir son of Denethor."

 _Oh._

And then, to make matters worse:

"Aren't you rather young to be the Captain-General of Gondor?"

 _You're a fool. Ignoramus. Idiot._

Boromir merely scoffed at her. Winter had never felt quite so small.

"Let me pass, Healer."

"I am not a Healer."

 _Because even once you've realised you've put your foot in it… you keep going._

In the dim light, Winter saw Boromir's—for yes, it had to be him—face twist in scorn.

"Perhaps then, girl, you should not be so swift to raise an alarm against the firstborn son of the Steward of Gondor!" His tone became more forceful with each word until he was positively growling.

"I am a Healer in training," Winter amended, "and a lady. Shall it be known that Lord Boromir treats ladies of the court in this fashion?"

 _Ah. That did the trick._

 _Look, sometimes blundering about in the dark produces good results._

Boromir's posture changed immediately. He leaned back, as if in an effort to study her, frowning heavily. Grasping her arm with gentle firmness, he propelled her towards the entrance to the store room as if she were no more inconsequential than a speck of dust.

"My lord—" Her face was hot with anger and embarrassment.

He released her when they stood before the entranceway and the light fell upon them both. The sunlight softened the look of him somewhat. The shadows no longer gathered in the stern lines of his face. He was, truly, very young—twenty-nine, as Winter recalled from her studies. Only now did she make a connection between his youth and the amazing nature of his appointment to Captain-General. It also made her tremble in her boots.

This was not someone she ought to have crossed, for a plethora of reasons.

And, with a start, she glanced back to his face. He was staring at her curiously, at the hair which fell in a glossy braid over her shoulder.

"You are Lady Faenil."

 _Oh_ dear. _Túiel, you may have a point._

"Yes, my Lord Boromir."

Boromir seemed to realise then that they stood facing one another in full sight of anyone who passed the store room. He bumped the door closed with a careless kick, coating them in gentle shadows once more.

His steely grey eyes raked over her more thoroughly. Winter could not imagine ever having been so thoroughly sized-up. His practiced gaze seemed to take in all there was about her, from the way she stood to the set of her jaw and the fashion in which Aeglossel had pinned the jewelled clips in her hair.

 _Still wondering how he managed to be Captain-General in his mid-twenties? He's obviously not as experienced as Rings-Boromir, but my goodness—have you ever met such a man?_

She could not say that she had. Never had Winter been reduced to silence by another person's stare. Furthermore, she had never felt so simultaneously dumbstruck and annoyed. All of her pique at being relegated to the store room swelled up, colliding with the frustration she felt with herself. Winter was often frustrated with herself, for her thoughtless speech, her sharp tongue—and her propensity to disappoint Ada Newhall in every sense.

 _Ok, not that again now too._

"You are frank, Lady Faenil."

 _You must fix this. Now. If you set one more toe out of line, there will be absolute hell to pay._

So Winter swallowed, smothering the quick wit inside her which longed to retaliate to Boromir's proud, presumptuous presence in the store room. "Forgive me, my Lord. I did not realise to whom I spoke."

"Which explains," Boromir said, quirking one brow, "why you continued your uncouth manner of speech _after_ I declared myself."

 _Oh, you are in for it. Big time._

"A grave mistake, my Lord, and one I shall not repeat. If you inform me what herbs you require, I will willingly fetch them for you."

 _Excellent grovelling._

 _Yeah, look, don't get used to it._

"It is of no import, lady. I have fetched all that I require."

Winter nodded mutely.

"Do you not desire to ask why Boromir son of Denethor slips into the store room to fetch his own remedies, Lady Faenil?"

He stepped closer, his voice cradling a trace of derision.

"No, my Lord."

"Do you not desire to inquire about the means with which I secured the position of Captain-General of Gondor _as one so young_?"

Another step.

"No, my Lord."

"And do you not desire to ask what must occur to Ladies who mistake Boromir son of Denethor for a simple man-at-arms and scold him in the store room?"

He was thirty centimetres away.

Winter spoke through gritted teeth.

"No, my _Lord_."

He moved back, and Winter breathed freely once more. Her anger crept dangerously close to spilling forth from a razor tongue.

"I had expected different answers from Lady Faenil, the woman of fire who so adeptly managed the ever-gruff Second Captain Rostor."

 _If you retaliate, someone will kill you. No joke._

She bit her lip in what she hoped was a demure fashion. In reality, it looked more like consternation.

Boromir sighed then, his shoulders drooping slightly. "Forgive me, Lady Faenil. My temper is short today. Is there fresh water on hand?"

Despite her fury, Winter nodded and replied. "Yes my Lord, in the pump."

She stood flabbergasted as Boromir passed behind her and busied himself with making some kind of draught with the jar.

 _Lord bloody Boromir is waltzing around in the store room. What is happening._

 _Why does the universe hate you, Winter Martha Elizabeth Newhall?_

 _Mm, as if I didn't have enough to deal with filling in forms with a name that long!_

Glad to have Boromir's attention diverted, Winter glanced at his back. The man's size was certainly imposing. His shoulders were broad, further emphasised by the sections of plate armour and chainmail which he wore. He moved confidently, as if familiar with remedies and elements of healing.

 _He did make that good call about Rostor and not attempting to pop the arm back in…_

 _And what about your acknowledgement that the Arda Exchange Program is right? That you should not meet with the house of Denethor?_

 _Yeah look, that was before the elder son blundered into my work station!_

Boromir turned back to her, wiping droplets of water from his chin with beguiling carelessness.

 _Well,_ Winter thought, as he waited silently, _he's fine with not talking, isn't he?_

He merely stared at her, allowing the silence to wax until Winter could scarcely bear it. She could fill such silence easily. Oh! How easily. There were so many remarks she wished to make, to lash out and meet this foe who seemed worthy of her mettle. She could speak to Lord Boromir exactly what she felt about his presence, and vent all the bottled anger that long restraint had gathered. Only the thought of Túiel kept her from speaking—and the potential consequences of any further blunders.

Apparently "my temper is short today" was the only apology Winter was to expect. Boromir offered no other, nor did he seem in the least ashamed of his rather forward behaviour. It made Winter long all the more to unleash a torrent of sarcasm.

"How is it, Lady Faenil, that a young woman from the provinces barely begun her training in the Houses, is capable of setting the arm of a battle-hardened Captain?"

 _Ok. Now, the least you can do when you've screwed it up this much is make your lie convincing._

Winter took a breath and swallowed before she allowed herself to speak.

 _And mind your tone._

"It is as I told Healer Ioreth; I helped set such an arm on my father's estate many years ago. Yesterday, I did as I saw Father's Healers do."

Boromir snorted slightly. "Quick eyes and a sharp mind, then."

 _What am I supposed to say to that? "Oh no, my Lord, I'm ignorant and foolish, just like other women of your court."_

 _Well, you're not wrong—you are foolish._

 _Charming._

"You interest me, Lady Faenil."

 _Marvellous. Splendid. Stupendous._

"Do I, my Lord?" _And do not arch your eyebrow in that way, Winter!_

"Aye. You are far more interesting than I had expected from the reports I heard of thee."

 _Look mate, it's no wonder the orcs shoot you in another decade! I'd help them, if I got a chance!_

When Winter proffered no outward reply to Boromir's words, he stepped closer to gain a better view of her. One eyebrow was lowered slightly more than the other, giving him an intense yet rakishly handsome appearance. He smelled rather nice—or, rather, he didn't stink like BO, and to Winter that was one and the same. As she continued to fix him with a stony gaze, he smiled slightly. The grin made him appear even more youthful, an almost boyish and sheepish expression which softened Winter's ire somewhat.

"Must you spear me with a gaze of such fierceness, Lady Faenil? I have explained myself, and forgiven you for your hastiness. There is naught to prevent you continuing your work." He gestured to the bench with open arms.

Winter frowned a little; did he intend to leave? Or was she to continue whilst he watched?

 _Did you really anticipate being overseen by Boromir of Gondor? Good gracious Winter, you're in an abominable mess._

 _And the least I can do is finish the catnip. Wouldn't want Ioreth mad as well._

 _Your logic is impeccable._

Realising she would look an utter fool if she stayed rooted to the spot, Winter walked slowly back to her position at the bench. To her left was Boromir. He had also gravitated in that direction, and had cleared himself an empty space on part of the stone slab benchtop. Here he seated himself with surprising grace, and turned to observe her, almost like a child in his mother's kitchen.

"What are you preparing?"

"Catnip." Winter began gathering the bundles, her eyes never leaving her duty to observe his face.

Boromir did not speak again for some minutes. Winter knew he was watching her, though something about the weight of his gaze did not make her skin crawl. His was an interested watching, as if puzzling her out rather than eyeing the shape of her form.

 _Great. At least now we know he's also not a skeeze._

When Winter was almost finished the catnip bundles, she stole a surreptitious glance at the Steward's son. He was fiddling with his nails.

 _Well._

"Why are you here, my Lord?"

Boromir looked up, rather surprised at her abrupt question. "Is there a reason I may not be here, lady?"

 _Apart from the fact that Gondorian custom dictates that two young people of opposite sexes such as ourselves shouldn't be left without supervision, no._

Winter gave the barest shrug. "I suppose not, my Lord. I merely assumed you must have a great many important duties to attend to."

"Father permitted me a morning of leisure," Boromir replied, a trifle shortly, "and my brother is busy elsewhere."

Winter nodded and returned to her work. She remained unconvinced as to his reasons.

Thus things continued for over an hour. Winter chipped away at the work Ioreth had assigned, whilst Boromir sat upon the bench and occupied himself in various mindless ways. Occasionally he would ask a quiet question; Winter would reply with as much brevity and politeness as possible, and then subside to silence.

It was an unusual truce. Winter maintained her methodical pattern, attempting to lose herself in the rhythm of a paring knife or through measuring powdered quantities into solutions. The tension in the room was palpable. Their unorthodox meeting had left her shaken, the possibility of messing things up further sickened her. Boromir, for his part, gave off no perceptible emotion. Nevertheless, Winter felt as if they danced a tightrope, jolting and wobbling to the other's movements.

Foremost amongst her shouting fears was the fact that she had done precisely what Badhor had warned against: drawn attention to herself. She had spoken out of turn and scolded the son of the Steward. More than that, he'd taken it upon himself—apparently because she interested him—to sit whilst she performed her tasks.

Oh, yes, she was in trouble.

Added to this was a steadily growing sense of innocent fascination and delight. As awful as the situation was, she was working not two metres from _Boromir of Gondor._ This was a man who, in another decade, would be undertaking his ride northward to attend the Council of Elrond. Here was an integral cog in the machine that comprised Middle-earth. Winter could only liken it to driving a car. When you were hurtling along a road at 100km/h, it was easy to think, "What would happen if I turned off the road into that tree?"

 _And it really is that simple. Screw this up, and Middle-earth is destroyed. Easy as driving off the road._

And there it was. She was a writhing mess of anxiety, frustration, fury at herself, and star-struck wonder. Part of her was tempted to fall at the man's feet and fangirl until she couldn't manage coherent speech. Real Boromir was intriguing.

 _Even if he is proud, hot-headed, can't take any kind of insult to his name, disregards the rules utterly, acts as if he owns the world, and can't stand to be idle._

 _Can I just point out that he kind of_ does _own the world? He's the son of the Steward, next in line 'til Aragorn shows up. And Gondor's kind of a big deal._

A slight smile overtook her frown. _Well he's still kind of like a ginormous bear._

 _Uh-uh,_ corrected her wisecracking internal voice, _not just a ginormous bear. A ginormous bear who knows how to treat dislocated shoulders._

 _Now you're splitting hairs._

Sighing, Winter added a measure of powdered root to a bottle and swirled it around vigorously. She toyed with a question for a moment, and finally braced herself. What more could she do to worsen her present situation? So long as she didn't insult him, the eldest son of Denethor didn't seem overtly prone to squabble about unconventional queries.

"Lord Boromir?"

"Yes?" He was busy playing with some kind of metal instrument from the bench, his large fingers holding it gingerly. His eyes moved to Winter, who found herself besieged by an unforeseen desire to laugh.

 _Does he know that's a garlic crusher?_

"If I may be so bold; why did you come to store room for willow bark? Why not ask Healer Ioreth to provide it for you, if you are in need of relief?"

Boromir grimaced slightly and placed the garlic crusher down. "Healer Ioreth is far too loquacious for me."

She couldn't help it. Winter chuckled. Low and almost silent, true. Yet immediately, Boromir's eyes snapped to her face. Seeing the unfeigned mirth there, he gave a low laugh in response.

"Ah, Lady Faenil, I see I am not the only one who shares this opinion."

Winter sniffed in her most haughty fashion, struggling to mask her expressions as she had so often scorned Gaerel for doing. "I said no such thing."

"No; your eyes did," Boromir replied, hands reaching for another oddment left lying around the storeroom. He held it up before his face, studying it intently.

 _Of all the nerve!_

"And yet," continued Winter, with more confidence, "you did not answer my question."

Boromir grunted. "Nay, I did not."

Silence.

Then a heavy sigh. "It is merely to lessen the pain. I fell against an outcropping of rock ere we returned to Minas Tirith, and my ribs trouble me. It is of little import."

Winter turned to look at him again. "Are they broken, my Lord?"

Boromir rubbed his eye wearily. "Most probably, my Lady. They need no tending, however. They are wrapped and the willow bark has done its duty."

 _Dislocated shoulders and broken ribs. This one's smarter than your average idiot._

"I am pleased to hear this, my Lord."

He grunted again.

 _Worse than Rostor._

Winter added a little more water to the solution she had been mixing, and capped the bottle. After scribbling a label for it, she left the heir to the Steward's throne with his trinkets and carried her work deeper into the store room. Her stomach was sadly empty, though she had no real desire to eat—an ailment Winter had seldom felt in her life. In reality, her stomach was churning as much as her mind.

There was nothing more for her to do in the store cupboard. Boromir's discomfiting presence had made Winter more productive than usual. She had missed lunch, but it could only be early afternoon. Ioreth had assigned her enough to last the day.

 _You can't just stay here._

 _Thanks Sherlock._

Brushing off her hands, Winter returned to the main part of the store room. Boromir had abandoned other distractions and was watching her.

"You are finished, my Lady?"

Winter nodded, and Boromir slipped off his perch on the bench.

"Come; let me escort you back to—"

Winter's stomach lurched in panic, and she spoke hurriedly.

"It is of little import, my Lord." Moving stiffly, she edged towards the door. "I must attend to my other duties with Healer Ioreth. Thank you—for your company. And—" she paused as he looked at her questioningly "—I am indeed sorry for my unmannerly words earlier." She lowered her eyes.

"Do not trouble yourself, Lady Faenil. But will you not let me escort you out?"

Winter smiled woodenly. "You would wish to converse with Healer Ioreth?"

Boromir's eyes widened with unfeigned alarm.

"Do not fear, my Lord. I shall be quite well on my own, and shall hold naught against you for the lack of escort." Winter bobbed into a shaky curtsey. "Good day, Lord Boromir."

With that, she slipped nimbly out of the door and hurried to Ioreth's chambers. As she strode unsteadily along, she hoped desperately that Boromir would not spring after her. The last thing she needed was to be seen emerging from a secluded cupboard with the Steward's son, pink-faced and nervous.

 _No. A royal affair is the last thing we want._

* * *

Badhor stared blankly at Winter as she poured forth her torrent of woes. In actuality, her soliloquy was more like a vengeful hissing of indignation.

 _How could Boromir have just waltzed in?_

 _How is it that, when I try so hard to abide by the rules, I still manage to screw everything up?_

 _How is it I manage to disappoint everyone even when I try my hardest to avoid it?_

Winter ceased speaking, her fair skin flushed with emotion. Badhor drummed his fingers on the surface of his desk, brows lowered in contemplation and eyes unfocused.

"Badhor?"

The man jumped as if drawn back from another world.

 _Another world where his Arda Exchange Program ward hadn't just broken every aspect of protocol in one fell swoop._

"We must speak with Túiel." He rose briskly from his seat behind the desk and skirted it. "Come, Winter."

Winter balked as the _byrath_ made for the door of his study. The fact he used her real name was enough to inspire fear in her. She gaped helplessly at him, her stomach pinched painfully.

"Badhor, I simply can't. Túiel will—"

"Túiel shall know how best to manage this situation," he replied firmly. "Come." With that he turned and departed, careless as to whether she followed.

 _Why. Just… why._

Her face lapsed into a scowl as she skittered after Badhor down the corridor.

After escaping Boromir's watchful eyes that afternoon, she had fled to Ioreth and begged to be excused for the remainder of the day. The Healer, upon hearing the work in the store room was completed, had cheerfully dismissed her. Winter had gathered her things and scampered back to her manor house without even waiting for her escort to be summoned. Fear of catching sight of Boromir had lent speed to her pace and she walked briskly, cloak tugged firmly to hide her hair and face.

As soon as she'd arrived home, she'd plunged into Badhor's study. And now— _traitorous fellow that he is—_ he was sending her to speak with Túiel.

Winter's heart was well and truly in her boots as she passed through the open door to Túiel's chambers. Badhor was already inside, his forthright speech already outlining all Winter had disclosed.

Túiel's eyes were wide in amazement.

"Lady Faenil!" she cried, as Winter entered. "What has happened?"

Winter's grey-blue eyes looked between them. Badhor stood still, his mouth in a firm line. His face was impassive, but Winter knew he was unsettled by her report. His kindly eyes were downcast, as if to avoid meeting her own grief-stricken gaze. Túiel, by contrast, was all wild emotion. At least, as wild as one could be if one were Gondorian born. Her eyes betrayed her shock, and her slim hands clutched desperately at the fabric of her skirt. Her clothing, perhaps, was the only stable thing in her present existence, now that Winter had upturned every sense of normalcy in Minas Tirith.

As she looked at them, Winter's chest throbbed. She had tried, tried so very hard. Throughout her training in Caoloth, she had devoted herself to learning as she had never done with her physiotherapy degree. She had inhaled each grain of detail about this world of mountains and wide lands and noble people with their fair faces. Entering Arda had disappointed her mother, it was true. But surely Ada would be pleased to know that Winter had succeeded, at the very least?

 _Except I haven't. I haven't succeeded. I made it out of Caoloth, trained in decorum it is true, and filled with knowledge about a strange world. Yet I didn't pause to think about how treating Rostor's arm would look. And then I yell at blasted Boromir, and sow myself another field of trouble to reap._

 _Good grief, I'm a trainwreck!_

Her body trembled slightly in her tumult of feeling.

 _You're a disappointment._

She looked from Badhor to Túiel again, and wept.

Winter could scarcely remember the last time she had wept in earnest. Too long ago. She hated crying, and yet fell to her knees, hands drawn up about her face as she sobbed. The sound of her weeping was loud and hideous, awful gasps for air mingled with wailing. She vaguely felt, rather than saw, Badhor slip out and close the door behind him. A moment later and Túiel's slim form was beside her, one arm resting between her shoulder blades and moving in a soothing, stroking rhythm.

Her crying slowed, until each breath was a whimper. Her nose had run all over her hands and face, mingling with tears and filling her with self-loathing.

As Winter unfurled her hands, Túiel placed within them a handkerchief. Fervently thankful, Winter dabbed at her wet, snot-covered face. _Disgusting_. When she felt less damp and sticky and childish, she opened her eyes.

Túiel was sitting beside her, feet tucked under herself. Her countenance was placid.

 _Huh._

Túiel smiled. It was a kindly smile, with a hint of understanding and compassion. Several more tears leaked out of Winter's eyes.

"Why do you weep, my lady?"

Winter grunted in her washed-out state of frustration. Gathering herself, she sighed. "I suppose, Túiel, because I'm angry with myself."

Túiel's forehead creased in confusion. "With yourself?"

"Mm." Winter dabbed at the late-coming tears which had swept across her cheeks. Her companion was waiting expectantly for her elaboration. "I suppose—I've stuffed things up, Túiel. Badly. I told off Boromir. _Boromir_. I made a mess of things yesterday with Ioreth, and Rostor. I've been a complete disaster since I came here. Why," she added, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone, "I'm a failure in your books simply because my hair is red!"

Túiel's face twisted in shame.

"Oh, Winter, I am sorry—"

"Forget it," Winter muttered, shrugging off the comforting hand on her shoulder. She began to rise awkwardly, pride burning like a furnace in her eyes.

"Winter!" Túiel's tone was sharp as it had been earlier, the commanding tone of a mother. "You did not allow me to finish."

"By all means, go on."

Túiel affixed her with a firm look. "I am truly sorry for any words I have spoken which have caused you grief. I did not realise that comments on your hair should be taken so. You have my most sincere apologies."

As pompous and correct as it sounded, Winter saw nothing but sincerity in the older woman's steadfast gaze.

"S'ok," Winter replied, reluctantly. "I guess—the hair thing didn't bother me at the time. And… I guess it's just that nothing about me has been _right_ since I got here. I—I'm—I've disappointed you."

"You certainly have not," came the firm retort. "Let me be the first to assure you; today was not your fault. Perhaps you might have guarded yourself better in speech, for your words were a little careless. However—" She held up her finger to cut off Winter's half-formed protest "—it was simply your misfortune that Boromir happened to be the one to enter your store room. Had he been a simple man-at-arms, he should have been chastened enough and left. As it is, we must merely treat the situation with care. It is wise you spoke to both Badhor and I. Nothing is ideal, but it is manageable."

Winter gave a bitter chuckle. "Well, you've certainly surprised me, Túiel. I expected you to turn hysterical and faint."

"I see," said Túiel, rather prim.

 _That was unkind._

"Sorry."

The Gondorian woman gave a half-shrug. "Perhaps I might have, had you not begun to weep. I may seem unduly concerned about many things, but is the fear of what might come which unnerves me, Winter. What is done, is done. Things have not gone to plan, and now we must gather ourselves and face it as best we might. There is no cause for worry or hysterics any longer, but for action."

Winter stared at Túiel for some time after this short speech. Admiration for her companion stirred in her chest. As anxiety-driven as she had been about many of Winter's activities, Túiel faced their present dilemma with equanimity and reason.

 _And a heart of gold, as you had always suspected underneath her gruff-nanny exterior._

The Australian girl sighed. With tentative awkwardness, she reached for Túiel's hand. Eyes met.

"I'm sorry that I have been a rather unruly charge, Túiel. And for being so irritating, and for stirring you to more worry when I didn't need to."

Túiel chuckled. "You would not be the first to do so. I shall ever worry about things, and my mother reprimanded me all through childhood for my anxious ways and prim scolding of my sisters. She said that was not my duty, but hers."

Winter found that easy to imagine, and gave a watery smile.

"Regardless," Túiel continued, more briskly, "we must formulate a plan of action. I am certain Badhor is already plotting. The best we may hope for is that Lord Boromir forgets your encounter. At worst, he shall seek you out and we must deter him from having any great interest in you. There is no great harm done."

"Will I be sent back, for messing things up?"

The fateful question tasted acrid as Winter voiced it.

Túiel shook her head decisively. "Nay. There is no cause for that as yet. You would not be the first to have a chance meeting with a person of importance in Middle-earth. All such situations shall be managed. Lord Calaron shall be informed, but merely as a precaution. He likes to be made aware of any such instances." She squeezed Winter's hands reassuringly. "You will not be sent back in disgrace, by any means."

Winter exhaled slowly. It felt rather like she'd been holding that singular breath since she'd recognised Boromir, the stale air inside poisoning her.

"I'm glad," she managed.

"As am I," countered Túiel, with a soft smile. "As much as you might have vexed me at times, with your moments of thoughtlessness or your tongue or, even," she grinned, "with your hair so bright—I should be very sorry to see you go."

Winter's smile was lost as she stared down at the fabric of her grey Healer's dress. Tears burst afresh in her eyes, and for an instant she felt a tiny flush of warmth in her chest. She experienced, in that fleeting moment, the knowledge that Túiel had bestowed her approval. She was not quietly disapproving. It was joy.

Seconds later the feeling was brushed aside as Winter steeled herself.

 _Not out of the woods yet, by any means._

 _No. But,_ she mused, stealing another glance at Túiel—who happened to be frowning thoughtfully— _it is rather nice to know she's not angry._

 _Perhaps this is what you've been missing with your M—_

 _Uh-uh._

Winter shook herself internally. She had allowed herself this twenty minutes of weakness, of unchecked emotion. It was enough. Now, she knew, it was imperative that she gathered herself for a delicate tightrope dance with the nobles of Denethor's court. Badhor and Túiel would aid her, certainly. But this trip to Middle-earth was now more than simply becoming a Healer and learning her trade; she needed to slip quietly back to unobtrusiveness, a middle-ranked noblewoman of little importance, frittering time in the Houses of Healing.

"Come, Lady Faenil." Túiel's change in address caused Winter to return to herself. "I am greatly in need of a cup of tea to soothe my rumpled spirits. As for you, I believe it best that you tidy yourself before Aeglossel comes to begin your lessons on the harp."

Winter smiled half-heartedly. _Ah. Túiel's back._

"Should I not come to speak with Badhor about what we ought to do?" Lady Faenil inquired, present and correct once more.

"Nay. We shall speak after the evening meal. Now off with you, milady, for your complexion is many shades of pink, and none ought to know that Lady Faenil has been distressed on the day she met with Lord Boromir." Túiel's eyes twinkled slightly as she rose and pulled Winter to her feet. The older woman steered her noble charge out of her quarters and chivvied her in the direction of the stairs.

Winter hesitated a moment at the foot of the sweeping staircase. She felt raw, naked, uncomfortable, having disclosed her emotions in Túiel's presence. Still—

"Túiel?"

"Yes, milady?"

Winter met the woman's eyes. She stared there a moment, the words she wished to speak halting in her throat. She struggled in vain. Nothing would come. So instead she nodded, a poor substitute for the thanks she longed to give.

Túiel, to her credit, read more in Winter's face than many might have. She smiled softly and strode away to her cup of tea, leaving the girl standing upon the lowest tread of the stairs.

 _Very eloquent._

Grinning a little wearily, Winter began her climb up to her chambers.

 _Oh, shutup, you._

* * *

 **And there's Chapter 9! I'm going to upload chapter 10 tonight so I'll put a longer author's note there. However, I would LOVE to get some reviews, so please chuck in a comment about what you thought.**

 **Love, Finwe. x**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 - Letters and thoughts**

* * *

 _10_ _th_ _March, 3007_

Winter's tender fingers fumbled across the harp strings. Several discordant notes rang out as her unpractised hands attempted to summon a tune.

She stopped in resignation.

As a single-minded banjo player, it was rather disconcerting to attempt a second instrument. Oh, certainly, she could fiddle away on a piano fairly well, but mainly by ear and a rudimentary knowledge of the keys. The harp was another creature entirely.

Aeglossel had coached her for several afternoons with unmatched patience. Winter had willingly devoted hours to the cause, with no social appointments until the following week. Admittedly, the harp lessons were an unmitigated relief from worrying. It seemed that, in every other task, her mind was held captive by fear about her chance meeting with Boromir.

The Steward's son could not possibly approach her until her introduction at court. It would be unorthodox to call upon a lady without a formal meeting. Still, even the knowledge that nothing could happen for some days left Winter feeling nervous. Perhaps he was thinking of their first meeting. Yet what if he had forgotten her? Or found her repulsive and did not wish to associate in future?

 _I'm not sure what's worse,_ Winter thought, grimly.

At any rate, her pique at the harp's difficulty drove these thoughts from her mind. Her worries travelled with her everywhere else, including her shifts in the Houses. Thankfully, Ioreth had not relegated her to the store room again. She was once more part of a coterie of apprentice Healers, flitting about at Ioreth's whims and learning Gondor's remedies. Just this morning, Winter had been instructed in the setting of a simple broken arm. She'd performed her duty admirably, though she wasn't sure she could forget the dull pain in the small boy's eyes as she had treated him.

 _At least you feel. Gaerel looks like she's got the emotional spectrum of a Mary Sue._

Winter grinned to herself, and was caught doing so as Aeglossel swept back into the room after an errand. The pretty maidservant moved with all the grace of a ballerina, a fact Winter envied a little.

"Lady Faenil, you do not play for me?" Aeglossel inquired, demure without being subservient. Winter liked to see the slight twinkle in her maid's eyes.

"Nay, Aeglossel, for my fingers are sore and my pride even more so. I believe I shall not profit from further playing today."

Her maid nodded. "As you wish, milady. And seeing as you are finished, you might also desire to read this. You have received letters."

This pronouncement captured Winter with single-minded interest. It had been ten days since she had last heard from her friends in the Program— _and what craziness has happened in this ten days!_ —and she longed for news. Aeglossel must have read the eagerness on her face, for she promptly produced a small wad of envelopes and passed them to Winter.

"I shall await milady's summons downstairs, when you are ready to dress for dinner." The girl curtseyed and departed.

Winter, for her part, had already begun to flick through her "post". These letters would be written and ferried between the nearest portals scattered throughout Middle-earth. The one closest to Minas Tirith was slightly to the north, in Anórien. Any letters for Winter would be carried from this portal by horseback to her manor house.

 _One from Lachie, one from James, one from Sarah, and one from Liz. Lovely._

Winter looked uncertainly between the envelopes, torn.

 _May as well just do it. You know you want to._

She grasped the note with Lachie's neat, workmanlike handwriting upon the front. Rising, she rose from the harp stool and moved to sit in an armchair. Lachie's letter was sealed with its author's customary precision. Winter opened it carefully and withdrew the fine pages within.

She was both worried and intrigued by what might be contained upon that elegant paper. For a moment, fear of Boromir's social retaliation was gone as she lost herself in Lachie's epistle.

* * *

 _Dear Winter,_ it read.

 _I've rewritten this several times now, and I think it's probably easier for both of us if I don't "beat about the bush" any longer. I care about you a lot. I hope that was obvious the day I left, and I hope the feeling is returned. As it is, there's not much else I can do or say about the matter via letter. I've never attempted a love-letter before, and I don't think I'll try now. Know that your kiss was the nicest I've ever had, and that I long to talk about this with you when we finish the Exchange Program. I think that I'm falling in love with you, Winter Martha Elizabeth Newhall. There, the elephant in the room has been discussed. Fingers crossed that now I'll be able to continue with this letter without turning into a soppy bard. Have you met any of those in Minas Tirith, yet? I think it would be rather funny to see one in real life. Please write to me all about it if you do._

 _Anyway, Rivendell is all I could have hoped for. The Elves are taller than even you or I could expect. I have run past Glorfindel several times in the past few days, and he's got to be over seven feet tall! On Earth he'd be called a giant. Here, he's merely a tall Elf. Go figure._

 _Everything about the Elves is elegant and graceful. They are beautiful beyond compare, but in such an inhuman way you half wonder whether it's even possible to look like that. They are a cheerful folk, half-serious and half-childlike. Sometimes it's a bewildering change between the two facades, but I suppose I'm getting used to it._

 _The other thing which surprised me was Elrond himself. I suppose the Arda Exchange knows best, but would you believe he knows about the Program? I was shocked. They taught us at Caoloth that none of the major characters must ever be exposed to this knowledge, because it might affect things adversely. And even the ordinary characters mustn't know of about the future. Apparently rules don't apply to Elrond of Rivendell. He called me Lachie, would you believe it, at our first meeting? Bet your Túiel never did that! It makes sense though, in some ways. I don't think you could hide anything from Elrond, and he is all up-to-date on protocol. Somehow, it doesn't surprise me that that Elf knows about an alternate world, and manages to react as calmly as you please._

 _I feel rather like I'm prattling on, but there's just so much news to convey in these first few days. I guess once things settle down and I begin to work more directly with Elrond as another healer, I'll have more manageable titbits of info to share with you about my weeks. Now, I'm just overwhelmed by how wonderful everything is. The Valley of Rivendell is about as exquisite as it gets. Even the Rockies in Canada are nothing in comparison. And, I'm sorry to say, even that view from Minas Tirith doesn't quite meet the standard of Elrond's home! It takes me half an hour to get out of bed most days, because as soon as I open my eyes I get caught admiring the perfect view._

 _But I won't taunt you any more with tales of things you aren't here to see. Especially as it makes me want you here with me, so that I can take you out under the stars and treat you as I should—not just kiss you and depart. There, I've become love-struck again; I promise I'll stop._

 _We could go for so many lovely walks here, you and James and I. I think Rivendell would be an even nicer playground than Caoloth, as fun as that was. You'd have so many good laughs with Lindir, one of Rivendell's bards—who looks nothing like Brett McKenzie, I can assure you—and sneak around the house trying to catch a sight of Bilbo Baggins without being caught. And to the question I know you will ask: yes, Winter, I have indeed seen Bilbo. He's perfect. I wish I had my camera so I could photograph him for you, but you know what a stickler I am for protocol._

 _Know that I think about you a lot, Win, and that I miss you. Goodness, I hope that's not presumptuous to say. You've told me you don't have anyone back home, and I'm trusting to that—I just hope that I'm not mistaken in your feeling for me._

 _Anyway, I miss your fiery head and that smirk you wear when you've just outwitted James. I miss hearing you play the banjo, looking so smug as your fingers fly everywhere. And, if I'm honest, I'm miss the way you and James run rings around me verbally. I never thought I'd miss being confused by Australian slang and idioms, but I admit I am. Heartless woman._

 _I hope this letter finds you well._

 _Love, Lachie._

* * *

Winter shook with laughter as she dropped the letter on the small side-table beside her armchair.

 _Of all the lovely, sweet idiots, Lachlan Howes is the nicest._

Almost immediately, she retrieved the letter and began to scan certain sections a second time. A beatified smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The expression lit up her eyes, as if they were a pale, cloudy sky lit from behind with sunshine. One slim hand held up the paper, whilst the other rested coyly at the side of her mouth.

 _For something that isn't a love-letter, it's surprisingly affectionate,_ her inner voice tittered.

 _Mm._ Winter's gaze fell on those heartfelt passages. Why did her stomach feel warm as she reread them?

 _Didn't you decide this was like playing with fire? That he was already too close to you, and you didn't want to encourage him? C'mon Winter, you're supposed to be practicing your Spock face and watching him impassively as he turns himself inside out to please you! Not smiling and applauding!_

 _But—I can't just tell him no. Not via letter. He's right, we can't talk about it until he's back._

It was as if sardonic laughter echoed in the crevices of her mind.

 _You've fallen for him, haven't you? Oh goodness, Winter._

She sprang to her own defence sharply. _I have not._

Unbidden, her eyes fell upon one passage: "I think I'm falling in love with you, Winter Martha Elizabeth Newhall."

Oh, how that made her heart—

No. She had decided she couldn't encourage him, beckon him closer. Lachie was too perceptive to be allowed near. Just as, in her emotional state yesterday, she had allowed Túiel to approach her. She'd been burning with regret the morning after.

 _Neither of those things can keep happening,_ Winter reminded herself, resolutely. _Honestly, what would Mum say if she found out you'd gotten all weepy and ridiculous with a strange woman? Or that in a few short weeks you'd been swept away by Lachie, as if you were a twelve-year-old at a One Direction concert?_

The imagined spectre of her mother's face twisted in disdain.

No. Ada Newhall would not be pleased. Keeping that fixed firmly in mind, Winter folded Lachie's letter and slipped it reverently back in the envelope. She would craft him a beautifully disinterested reply. Tomorrow. She would not encourage his feelings. Yes, she must put off turning him down until the Program had concluded. Until then, she must remain friendly, yet aloof.

As she rose and moved to her dressing table, Winter smiled softly.

 _Lachie is absolutely—_

 _—_ _not for you._

She started, realising that she was grinning like a lovesick baboon as she tucked the letter behind a bottle of perfume in one of her dresser drawers.

 _Stop it,_ she scolded, and pushed the drawer roughly closed.

Shaking her head to clear it, Winter put aside Lachie's frank confessions.

 _Just another thing you've got to learn to ignore,_ she thought, resignedly.

To soothe herself, Winter turned to James' letter. It was shorter than Lachie's, but brought her far more untainted amusement. There was no conflict in her heart as she chuckled over his witty tales of the folk of Laketown. Her fellow Australian was doing exceptionally well up near Erebor. He described the Lonely Mountain as eloquently as Lachie depicted Rivendell, and then moved abruptly into a comical retelling of his first encounter with Dwarves. As Winter finished reading, she brushed a tear of laughter from her cheek.

 _Dear old Jimmy,_ she sighed, flipping to the last page of the letter. Here, James had included a drawing. Winter had known he was handy with cartoons, but it still caught her attention.

The series of caricatures showed the King of Dale, several ordinary Dwarven folk, and Dain Ironfoot, King Under the Mountain. Winter wished she had seen the real versions, in order to compare them to their beautifully-drawn exaggerated selves.

Nevertheless, she was delighted with James' thoughtful gift.

Her spirits infinitely higher, Winter concluded her letter-reading with Sarah and Elizabeth's notes. They were cheerful, friendly epistles, telling of the day-to-day goings-on and inquiring about Winter's Exchange experience. Whilst neither of the two girls had been as close to Winter as James and Lachie, she was glad to hear from them. They were sweet, forthright, and unaffected. Friends like that were hard to find. Smiling, Winter closed her last letter and leaned back in her chair.

For several minutes, she basked at peace. As time passed, however, her niggling concerns came to the fore. They pooled like ink within her mind, tainting her sense of calm. She reached swiftly for James' letter and reread it. She dawdled through the wittiest passages, aching for his jokes to once again dispel her concerns. They did not. Her mind was full of Boromir and Lachie, of social disaster and the—dare she call it an ache?—of forbidden affection.

Oh, yes, she was certainly in danger from Lachie.

Sighing, Winter placed the rest of the letters with Lachie's and rang the bell to summon Aeglossel. She needed to dress for dinner.

 _Get your act together, Winter. There's nothing you can do about the Boromir thing. And adding a foolish romance to your list of mistakes won't help any._

She nodded.

When Aeglossel entered a moment later, Winter smiled sweetly and allowed her maid to dress her in a fine gown of pale blue silk.

* * *

"Tuilere approaches in ten days' time, Lady Faenil, and we must ready you for your presentation to Lord Denethor's court."

Winter nodded thoughtfully, repressing the stab of worry she felt about that fact. She sat sword-straight in her chair, daintily slicing at the roast mutton on her plate. Two weeks ago, she would've found this stiff position uncomfortable. After four-hundred reprimands from Túiel about the importance of posture—and as many hours practicing it—Winter felt surprisingly at ease. She listened carefully to Badhor's talk of the upcoming Spring Festival in Gondor, and wished fervently she was to be presented when Lord Boromir was not at home in Minas Tirith.

"Why," she inquired curiously, "have I not been presented to Lord Denethor before now? I thought that the Steward held court weekly for the petitions of noble families, and the introduction of those new to Minas Tirith?"

Badhor nodded, pleased with her memory. "You are correct, milady. However, Lord Denethor held court only a day before you arrived. He has been prevented from doing so again by a number of factors; first, a minor illness, and then by the arrival of his sons, Lords Boromir and Faramir. They come with tidings of unrest east of Osgiliath."

Winter glanced between companion and _byrath_ before she spoke again. "Yet surely Lord Denethor must realise that avoiding court after the arrival of his sons must only further such rumours? Does he wish his city to be uneasy and suspicious with gossip of war brewing?"

Badhor gave Winter a piercing look, but there was approval in the sharp gaze.

"He has issued a statement," put in Túiel, a tad acidly, drawing Winter's eyes to her, "declaring that court shall not be held ere Tuilere arrives, at which there shall be a great celebration for the return of his _son_ from his campaign. Oh, fear not, Lady Faenil; Lord Denethor knows the danger of rumours."

"And yet covers them poorly," grumbled Badhor. "Do you not see that he celebrates the return of Boromir only?"

Both women stared at him—Winter in amazement, and Túiel in surprise that he spoke so bluntly what she had implied.

"Forgive me," Badhor amended, somewhat contrite. "My words were ill-spoken. Yet I cannot help but feel unconvinced by Lord Denethor's ruse. Lord Faramir returns to Osgiliath with the garrison tomorrow. Only Lord Boromir remains for this _celebration—_ "

"Badhor, we should not—"

"Yes, Túiel, I know," muttered he. "Yet you cannot tell me that you approve of the manner in which Lord Denethor brushes his younger son aside?"

Winter followed the exchange between the two with interest. Much of what they said she knew or suspected, yet it was interesting hearing such things directly from the Gondorians. All her knowledge came from books; Badhor and Túiel added a layer of depth to her understanding of Gondor's politics.

"I will not speak ill of the Steward any further," replied Túiel, primly.

"In which case I shall not ask Lady Faenil to do so, though I see indignation burning upon her countenance. Ah yes, milady, I read you well."

"Compose yourself, girl!" from Túiel, who seemed a little ashamed of her own lapse.

Winter bowed her head in acquiescence and smoothed her features before speaking.

"And so Lord Faramir returns to strengthen the garrison at Osgiliath, whilst Lord Boromir remains for the celebration of Tuilere?" She paused, wondering whether to continue. "Why?"

Badhor sighed. Túiel merely ate some more seasoned potato.

"That is what I have attempted to puzzle out for a number of days," Badhor said, slowly. "Evidently Denethor has some ulterior purpose in detaining Lord Boromir. Perhaps it is but a whim, to have his eldest at his side, though I doubt as much. Lord Boromir is as headstrong as his father, and cares not for the intrigues of court. He would not give up his position in the garrison at Osgiliath for any length of time, except at great need."

"So Lord Boromir would not remain merely to keep Lord Denethor company?"

Badhor shook his head emphatically. "No indeed, milady. Lord Boromir has not great aptitude for the social intricacies one must follow in Gondor. He is neither witless nor uncaring; he devotes himself wholeheartedly to the defence of the realm, and yet gives little thought to the subtleties of political manoeuvres."

Winter nodded, though she did not speak. Her thoughts were busy.

Everything Badhor said merely confirmed the profiling she had done of Gondor's nobles whilst she had been in Caoloth. Calaron's researchers had gathered a great deal of information on the ruling family, in particular.

Lord Denethor, it was said, governed by pride. He was a noble man, haughty and strong, skilful in battle as well as capable of deep thought. Each movement he executed was calculated. As Badhor had said, he did fall subject to the odd whim—especially regarding his elder son—but largely could be expected to act with utilitarian efficiency and great foresight.

Lord Boromir shared much of his father's pride. Winter could attest that much herself, she thought wryly. He was just as fiercely haughty, strong, valiant, courageous, and deserving of his position as Captain-General. Lord Faramir, on the other hand, was utterly different to his brother. He was hardly less physically capable than Boromir, and yet had inherited his father's wit and skill in managing people. As much as Boromir adored to be in the thick of battle, Faramir was equally happy as emissary or scholar. He was not conniving or duplicit—at least according to Winter's sources—and yet managed to grace Minas Tirith's court and harbour a great deal of favour. Where Boromir wandered about, taking the most direct route and being left unhindered due to his position, Faramir stepped with grace.

Much of this information Winter had known before her studies at Caoloth; her preparation in the south of Gondor had merely honed her skills. Meeting Boromir in person had affirmed the accuracy of her knowledge of him, at least. Now, Túiel and Badhor corroborated the rest. She was reasonably confident in her understanding of the situation.

"And so," Winter said, after a few moments of silence, "we must discover to what purpose Lord Denethor has detained the Captain-General."

Her two companions met this remark with silence.

Finally, Badhor said, "It is not wholly necessary; yet I would not deny the usefulness of such information."

"And, if the opportunity should arise for me to subtly work it out of Lord Boromir—provided he does not forget a simple run-in with a minor noblewoman by Tuilere—I ought to take it."

Túiel's hands clenched at her cutlery, but she didn't speak.

"Yes," Badhor nodded reluctantly. "With caution."

Winter met his gaze squarely over the decanter of wine upon the table, a little offended. "I think I have learned the value of caution after my last mistakes. I will not forget that lesson."

Her _byrath_ gave a slight smile. "I am certain of it, milady. To be truthful, knowing what Lord Denethor conspires might provide us with a future advantage. And we have ample time to establish the best way to do this, for Tuilere is over a week hence. Now, milady; shall you tell Túiel and me all you know of the Spring festival?"

Winter tilted her head, placing her knife and fork on her now-empty plate and swallowing her final mouthful.

"As you wish. Tuilere is the celebration of the coming of spring—" _the approximate time that Frodo destroys the ring in ten years' time_ "—and an important event in the Gondorian calendar. On the first day of spring, there are parades and merrymaking in the lower parts of the city among the common folk. It is a holiday, and all shops are closed, save the florists'. Unlike in the autumn, commoner and noble do not mingle at Tuilere. Instead, the women of Lord Denethor's court gather to contribute flowers to a great wreath. It is woven all together as a symbol of the work of the Valar, as one. Throughout the day, it is custom for those who are courting or married to exchange wreaths, which are worn on the head for the duration of the day and evening. In the afternoon, the children of the court are called upon to perform a dance about a pole. This ritual is also performed in the lower levels, among the common folk. After this, the Steward and his family gather in the gardens near the Houses to plant a new tree, in honour of the growth of new life.

"In the evening, the Steward hosts a great ball. It is customary for the Steward to present to each lady attending a single lily. There are a great number of ceremonial dances, and later in the evening there is a coming together of all couples to perform a final dance. Of course, there are other instances scattered throughout the day; gift-giving is common between lovers. In the lower levels, many give lilies just as the Steward does, amongst themselves. There are—bawdier traditions, also," Winter said, slowly. "It is said that any man who manages to convince a woman to accept a jasmine flower from him is entitled to a kiss. Many couples place this flower in their wreaths willingly, whilst other gentlemen attempt to conceal it within other gifts to ensure themselves this display of affection." She paused, unsure whether to continue.

Badhor read her glance. "You have remembered well, my lady. I do not believe there is much else of import."

Túiel affirmed his statement with a nod.

Winter wished she didn't feel such a childlike flush of pride at having pleased her _byrath_ and companion. "I presume, then, that I shall be involved in all of the customary activities for the nobles in Gondor?"

Badhor replied. "Indeed. Lord Denethor shall hold court the day before Tuilere, in nine days. You will thus be presented to the noble folk. It is unfortunate that Lord Denethor could not hold court earlier than the morning before Tuilere, for then you could cultivate acquaintances with other nobles to ease the burden of appearing at the festival. As it is, even letters of introduction from your father, Lord Lossemen, are not enough to allow you to simply visit their homes. You must be introduced in a public place, ideally court, or a ball. We are effectively bound motionless until Tuilere."

"Nay, Badhor, for Lady Faenil may learn, and she must occupy her days in the Houses," insisted Túiel, with a slight smile. "We must be cautious, Lady Faenil must practice her skill at the harp, for after Tuilere she shall be expected to play in company, perhaps. How is your work with the harp going, Lady Faenil?"

Winter permitted herself a low laugh. "I am afraid it is going poorly. I have only been learning a few days."

"Do you expect to be able to play well enough to perform in company in a fortnight?"

"No," said Winter, firmly. "Even in a fortnight, I shall still be clumsy and inexperienced. I would not feel comfortable playing in public for months."

"Hm," frowned Túiel. "Lord Calaron assured us you were musical."

"I am—I just don't play the harp," said Winter, a trifle tartly.

Badhor finished his meal and placed his fork upon the porcelain plate. "Do you sing, Lady Faenil?"

Fortunately for Winter, her reaction to this question was not nearly so severe as when James had made his innocent inquiry those weeks before.

Her palms were suddenly sweaty on the fabric of her skirt. Winter stared down at her plate, stomach suddenly regretting the mutton. Her white crockery was smeared with sticky brown gravy. Dots of oil were like nauseating pools. A sprig of parsley, which had garnished the dish, lay half-drowned to one side. Her eyes glazed.

This time, Winter shut down the hideous flashback before it completely eroded her composure. Still, it took several deep breaths for her to regain her calm, and reply,

"No, Badhor, I do not."

The _byrath_ gave Túiel an apologetic half-shrug.

"In which case," the latter said, "we must simply put off any requests for music until a later date. That can be managed."

Winter nodded mutely, lips pressed together. Fortunately, neither Túiel or Badhor pressed the issue.

They sat in silence for the remainder of the meal.

* * *

 _11_ _th_ _March, 3007_

 _Make sure you go and have a look at the treasure-horde for me, Jimbo. At least one of us needs to slip into the Lonely Mountain and take a look at that pile of gold, and have a chinwag with King Dain. At least, give it a fair crack of the whip, and see if you make it in. I mean, you can't really beat having a one-on-one with_ _Lord Boromir_ _in the store room of the Houses of Healing… but you can try._

 _Looking forward to hearing more of your exploits soon! Thanks for sending the pictures last time. I wish I had something I could send you, but the only thing I'm willing to part with—that blasted harp—won't quite fit in the envelope. So, you'll just have to satisfy yourself with my rad jokes, and_

 _All my love,_

 _Win._

 _Ps. Stay off the amber nectar._

* * *

Winter signed the letter with a flourish and a smile. Composing her reply letter to James had been a breezy spattering of ink and looping quill-strokes. Truthfully, the ink blots had come from Winter's uncontrollable desire to chuckle as she penned each joke.

Her replies to Sarah and Elizabeth had also been written, folded and sealed. They awaited their respective journeys upon the desk beside her. Leaving James' letter to dry, Winter rose and began to wander about the room.

She stood within the drawing room of her manor house.

 _Lord Lossemen's manor house,_ Winter corrected herself. She really ought to relate her fictional father to her life more. Poor Lord Lossemen had almost been forgotten in previous days.

The drawing room was beautiful. Aside from her bedchamber, with its view over the Pelennor, this was the nicest part of the house. The floor was of dark timber slabs, covered with a grey carpet so pale that Winter was almost afraid to walk upon it. It was furnished with a dainty writing-desk, several richly-upholstered armchairs, large oil paintings, and a generous scattering of green pot plants. The walls were bare, alabaster stone. The room felt tranquil and airy, yet comfortably warm in the new spring days.

Winter skirted the carpet carefully, her eyes roving about for some form of distraction.

Today was her designated day off from the Houses. Without six hours of running errands for Ioreth, her hours were depressingly empty. It was scarcely midmorning, and she had already exhausted her meagre supply of amusements. Her letters were done— _not all of your letters, silly—_ she had practiced dutifully at the harp for an hour, dressed neatly according to Aeglossel's taste, and had breakfast.

 _Perhaps,_ Winter mused, as she completed another lap of the room, _Túiel will allow me to go out for a walk with Sam and Will later today… She says it's fashionable to go at around three. That's only… five and a half hours. Great. Sometimes I wish I could just get up and wander out whenever I pleased. Why must they restrict young noblewomen so much? There are umpteen places around Minas Tirith I long to explore._

Winter rubbed her palms across her face, glad that the noblewomen of Minas Tirith only wore makeup to special functions.

Waiting until Tuilere for any form of action was beginning to grate on her nerves. True, it was necessary, but Winter didn't have to like it. She despised sitting about, playing Lady Faenil, prevented from finding out what her scolding of Boromir might cost.

 _If I knew he was angry and about to have me publically shamed, at least I could brace myself for that. Instead, it's all waiting, waiting, waiting. Lord bloody Boromir. About as helpful as a screen door on a submarine._

Perhaps the thought summoned him. Perhaps Winter was just a painfully unlucky woman. Regardless, as she made her eighth circuit of the drawing room, she heard the sound of metal striking cobblestones. The hoofbeats of shod horses echoed along the quiet fifth tier street, causing Winter to turn towards the windows.

As she glanced through the distorted panes, a huge bay destrier burst into view and halted noisily outside her house. It was soon joined by several other horses, who stomped boisterously upon the ground as their riders pulled them up.

 _What in the name of Nicolas Cage is going on?_

Frowning, Winter strode towards the door to the drawing room, her skirts breezing about her with a soft _swish-swish_.

As she reached for the handle, the door was wrenched open before her abruptly. The jolt caused Winter to stumble backwards.

"Lady Faenil," cried Túiel, in a sharp whisper. She positively jumped inside the drawing room, tugging the door closed behind her with feverish speed. Winter stepped back in bewilderment as Túiel planted her back firmly against the door as if to ward off an unseen enemy.

"Túiel! What's wrong?"

For what felt like a full minute, Túiel merely gaped at her mistress. Then, someone rapped on the other side of the door.

"Lady Faenil?" came Badhor's inquiry.

Túiel's face was pale and stricken with horror. Nevertheless, she peeled herself away from the door and strode resolutely to the far end of the room.

Baffled, Winter called out, "Come in!"

Badhor opened the door, his face an impassive mask. "Lord Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor to speak with you, milady."

 _Struth._

Winter's head snapped to Túiel at the far end of the room. Her companion was standing behind an armchair, clutching at it with white-knuckled hands. Winter swivelled back to look at Badhor, who had schooled himself to impassivity with a monumental effort.

 _My. Goodness._

Winter gulped, her eyes locked with Badhor's. For an instant, the latter's mask faltered. She saw the sheer amazement in his face, the confusion. Somehow, it lent Winter resolve.

 _You will not screw this up. You will not screw this up._

"Tell Lord Boromir he is most welcome," she replied, moving away from the door. Her chest echoed with the throbbing of her heart as she placed herself firmly upon one of the armchairs.

 _Why? What on earth is he doing here?_ she wanted to scream. _He can't come and visit yet. We haven't even been intro—_

"Lady Faenil." Boromir filled the room with his bulky form. Somehow, it seemed to Winter that the drawing room was no longer quite so graceful and airy as Denethor's eldest son moved into the doorway with his hulking, six-foot-something frame.

 _Breathe._

"My Lord Boromir." Winter rose from her armchair politely and dropped into a low curtsey.

 _Legs, if you betray me, I will amputate you myself._

 _Not necessary,_ her other half retorted, as she stood to her full height once more.

In response to her civilities, Lord Boromir inclined his head slightly.

 _Maybe I should teach Túiel to swear. That might help her release some of that anxiety._

"Please, make yourself comfortable, my Lord." Winter gestured to another armchair, which Boromir took. She sank gratefully back into her own chair and dared a glance at the man's face.

Boromir of Gondor was even more lordly in full daylight. His raven hair glistened as if freshly washed. Heavy brows overset deep grey eyes, which seemed to take in everything with a hefty intensity. He sat with the ease of a born athlete. His mammoth frame seemed to fill half of the room, but it was a graceful filling. His limbs were not kinked about in lanky fashion. Rather, he sat leaning backwards, one palm resting on his thigh whilst the other curled over the engravings on the arm of his chair. Coarse, battle-worn fingers splayed over upholstery and timber as if they owned it.

He was effortless.

And the steely eyes watched Winter's every move.

Knowing it was her duty as host to begin conversation, Winter forced a light smile.

"How do you fare this morning, my Lord Boromir?"

He smiled with a Gondorian's typical reserve. Still, the expression was noticeable.

 _Better than Gaerel the statue._

"I am well, Lady Faenil. I hope you are also?"

She nodded politely. "Certainly, my Lord."

For an instant, Winter was filled with sickening fear that they would run out of conversation within ten minutes. She despised small talk. It made her think of Emily from back home, tittering on about next to nothing.

Fortunately— _or unfortunately_ —Lord Boromir seemed to care for small talk as little as she did.

"I trust you have been enjoying your work in the Houses, Lady Faenil. I have not had the pleasure of seeing you there these several days' past. In fact, I sought you out there first this morning, only to discover you were not on duty there. You must forgive me for ignoring you since our first meeting; my Father has required my presence a great deal due to my brother's departure early this morn."

Winter paused before replying, uncertain which aspect to address first. Eventually she smiled, saying, "It is of no import, my Lord. I understand perfectly the duties which must claim your attention, for I had heard of Lord Faramir's impending return to Osgiliath ere the week was out."

Out of the corner of her eye, Winter saw Túiel shift uneasily. As was appropriate, Winter's _byrath_ and companion awaited any summons at the fair end of the room. They were, in the most basic sense, chaperones, loitering close enough to provide visual supervision and far enough away so as not to overhear.

 _Well, at least this meeting is proper and correct!_

"Ah, you are well acquainted with the goings-on of the city, then," Boromir nodded almost eagerly. "That is well. My father is much occupied with the administration of Minas Tirith at present. He attempts to draw me into these tasks, though I find I have little love for administration. That is my brother's domain."

Winter hesitated, unsure how to respond.

Boromir seemed to read her countenance amiss, for he held up his hands apologetically.

"Forgive me, my lady. I shall not bore you with such details, having professed my own disinterest in them. I could scarce imagine that a lady from the provinces would find much interest in the politics of Gondor." He smiled briefly.

 _Broad assumption._

Truthfully, Winter would have rather enjoyed hearing about the working state of Minas Tirith's political system from Boromir himself. Caught between her own nerves and Túiel's eagle eyes, Winter knew she couldn't reveal her interest. As little as Boromir seemed to care about being aloof and distant, for Lady Faenil to be too forthcoming could produce poor results. Instead, she gave a demure smile.

"I know little of the workings of the court in Minas Tirith, m'lord."

"Why should you?" shrugged the Steward's son, shifting in his chair. "Yet let us speak of pleasanter things! Have you been forced to turn aside any other noblemen from your store room of late, Lady Faenil?"

In spite of herself, Winter's cheeks stained pink at this. Exerting herself, she managed a tinkling laugh.

"No, Lord Boromir, for I have not been at work in the store room for some days." She studied her sweaty hands, entwined in her lap. When she dared to glance up a few moments later, Boromir's eyes rested upon her kindly.

"That is well! Such a pretty lady should not be ensconced in such a dim room."

 _You blithering idiot!_

Winter did not have to feign the embarrassment which flooded her face.

 _Do I look suitably demure for you now Lord Boromir, duke of idiots?_

The Steward's son was indeed grinning in satisfaction at Winter's discomfiture. His eyes glinted in amusement.

Winter gritted her teeth as unnoticeably as possible. The man was making her feel like a blushing fourteen-year-old, and protocol dictated that she could not set the record straight.

 _Preserve Lady Faenil. That is all you must do._

Luckily, it appeared that Boromir had had enough of flirting. He leaned forward in his chair, bringing both hands together and clasping them as he watched her.

"The purpose of my calling, Lady Faenil, was not to tease you so—as great a joy as it is for me to see you flush so prettily. Nay, I have come to inquire whether you might be free to ride through the city with me tomorrow, when you are no longer required within the Houses?"

Winter gulped, forcing herself not to glance at Túiel or Badhor for some sign of approval. She must decide.

 _Except that you don't refuse the Steward's son when he calls upon you so directly. What decisions is there to make?_

Winter gave a small smile. Her face felt creaky.

"Certainly, my lord. I should be delighted to accompany you."

Boromir grinned. The expression might have passed for an ordinary grin back on Earth, for it was far broader than Winter had thus far observed in Minas Tirith.

She glanced down again, bashful.

"Shall I call for you, my lady?"

Winter nodded. "I am dismissed from the Houses at the third hour after noon, my Lord."

"In which case I might expect to find you here at the fourth hour?"

"Indeed."

Boromir leaned back in his chair once again, appearing pleased with himself. "Have you a horse of your own, Lady Faenil?"

"Yes, my Lord Boromir. A hunter mare, Lúna. She is housed in the small stables here, on the fifth tier."

Her companion frowned. "A black mare, with two small white markings about her rear feet?"

"You describe her well," replied Winter, a little amazed. "Have you visited these stables, my lord?"

He shrugged. "There are precious few horses in Minas Tirith, my lady. Our soldiers do not all travel on horseback, as the people of Rohan do. Many stables are empty."

"And yet you are acquainted with the horse of one woman," Winter countered, with a trace of her former merriment. "I am impressed, my Lord."

"It is no great effort to wander amongst the horses whilst another tends to them, Lady Faenil," he replied. "I visit the stables on the fifth level frequently. The mare is a rare creature indeed. You are fortunate."

Winter smiled involuntarily. "Yes, Lúna is a beautiful mare. My father gifted her to me for my twentieth birthday."

"A noble gift, Lady Faenil. I am certain she will carry you nobly when we ride abroad tomorrow."

 _Is it bad that I'm rather looking forward to this?_

"I look forward to it."

Boromir nodded, pleased. He shifted forward in his chair, making as if to rise.

"In which case I shall depart, and forego the pleasure of your company until tomorrow," he smiled, rising like a large cat.

Winter stood politely in response, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Ah—yes, my lord."

 _Where did your words go, woman?_

Boromir smiled again at this, taking one nimble step closer to Winter. A fleeting instant later, she was staring up at his dark face. One side of his mouth was tilted in a smirk. His large, coarse hand extended towards her.

 _Oh._

Fervently wishing she could avoid it without appearing rude, Winter reached out her hand. Boromir took it in his broad palm. The rough thumb slipped across Winter's knuckles. His skin was calloused and hot as he pulled her hand towards his mouth. His grey eyes met hers over her knuckles, swirling in their depth and playfulness. Winter wished his breath wasn't quite as warm, or his lips as practiced, in that moment. His mischievous watching was an eternity…

And he released her. Winter smiled skittishly and curtseyed politely as Lord Boromir twinkled upon her. Then they were walking side-by-side to the entrance of the room. Badhor had beat them there, and was holding it open for the lord and lady to pass.

After several more polite civilities, Winter observed Boromir mount his great bay horse with a flourish. Moments later he was clattering away with his small retinue of guards, dark hair glossy in the sunlight and a smug expression on his countenance.

* * *

"You held yourself well, Lady Faenil," said Túiel, emphatically. "Do not distress yourself."

Winter pressed her lips together tight, wishing the storm inside would cease raging. Sections of her meeting with Boromir were playing repeatedly in her mind as the three sat about the table, languidly sipping tea.

"I simply do not understand," Winter managed, at length. Her grey eyes were wide as she stared across at Túiel and Badhor. "Why did he come?"

This time it was Badhor who rubbed his face with his palms.

"I do not know, milady," he sighed. "By all rights and customs, he should have waited until your formal presentation to call upon you in this way. Indeed, a formal presentation alone would not have been enough to warrant such a casual visit. He ought to have had his steward request a personal greeting in court beforehand."

Túiel cradled her teacup placidly. "Lord Boromir has hardly fostered a reputation as one who favours protocol."

"Yet he must, to some degree," snorted Winter, "for he has advanced in the ranks of Gondor's military. Even being Denethor's son cannot guarantee you such a promotion, surely?"

Both the Gondorians shook their heads emphatically.

"No indeed, Lady Faenil. Lord Boromir is thoroughly deserving of his appointment to Captain-General, unusual as it is." Badhor scratched his dark head thoughtfully. "The truth is that Lord Boromir cares little for the nuances of his father's court. He is neither unmannerly nor uncouth, yet he glides about with little thought for subtlety. If he has a grievance with another man, he shall visit him and demand a duel. Political niceties simply do not occur to him."

 _Well I guess he learns some caution by he reaches Rivendell._

 _Don't you remember the Council of Elrond? He's blundering about verbally the entire time, about the Ring, and all that. I would hardly call that "caution"._

It was certainly true. Boromir's temper would not have abated even in a decade's time, nor did it seem he would learn much of Faramir's supposed discernment.

Winter drained her now-lukewarm tea. "So I suppose that means that if Boromir was idle and interested in a strange noblewoman, he would simply walk over to see her regardless of the consequences?"

Badhor nodded wearily. "Precisely."

"And we must now gather the fragments," Túiel said. "At the very least, Lord Boromir shall not consider anything underhand has been done. He will simply declare you have already been introduced, and be naively confused if anyone states there is something amiss."

Winter jabbed moodily with her spoon at the tea residue in her cup.

 _Be thankful for small mercies, I suppose?_

 _And now you know for certain that Boromir, at least, doesn't despise you._

The memory of his insolent grin threatened to spark another blush upon her cheeks. It was both flattering and disconcerting to be looked at with that roguish, teasing expression by a fictional character. Boromir seemed every bit the lady's man. Oh, not that he seemed fickle or unfaithful, but his good-looks and pleasing smile were certain to beguile anyone he turned his eye to.

 _But not you. Never you._

 _No. Not me. I'm too busy freaking out as to why he's disregarding every social rule to come over for tea and chill._

 _Oh man. What if he likes me? What if this has complicated things no end?_

 _Well at least your visit to Middle-earth hasn't been boring?_

"What shall we do?" Winter asked, instead of voicing her vicious internal monologue. Unfortunately, Boromir's surprise visit had merely added to her concerns.

Túiel placed her cup down with a resolute _ting_. Her grey eyes met Winter's. "Nothing at present. And tomorrow, milady, you shall go riding."

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE**

 **We have finally reached a half-score of chapters!**

 **As I write this my friends are running rowdy down the corridor (we've just had college elections and there's a whole lot of celebration going on). I'm glad to be ensconced in my common room instead, composing this note to all of my faithful readers.**

 **I hope that, so far, you're following Winter and her character arc fairly well. I really hope that it's making sense, that it's forming a cohesive picture of who she is and what's happening with her. Please leave me a review on what you think! I would love to hear about what you think regarding Winter. :)**

 **I also hope you've enjoyed my introduction and characterisation of Boromir. I've got many interesting ideas about the Boromir-Faramir dynamic that didn't really have the chance to come out in my first fic about Elanor. I think I was too inexperienced to express it, and Boromir came in so early I didn't have time to consider what he would be like. Additionally, the Boromir we see here is much younger and more forthcoming. I'm really enjoying getting to experiment with him.**

 **Much love - Finwe. x**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11 - A date with the Steward-prince**

* * *

12th March, 3007

 _Six minutes to four._

 _How much do you want to bet he clatters in at four on the dot?_

 _Nothing. Of course he will. That's like me throwing money away._

 _To yourself._

 _…_ _Right._

Winter rubbed her palms on her thighs for the fifth time that afternoon. Túiel's sharp eyes caught her in the act and she swiftly ceased.

"Lady Faenil, you shall crease your habit," sighed her companion, in a long-suffering manner. "You must learn to wait without this manner of distress."

Winter exhaled sharply and turned her gaze to one of the windows. Her vision clouded over as she stared at nothing.

"Easier said than done, Túiel. There is so much which depends on this. I must be polite, and yet uninteresting. We must prevent him from seeking me further, without spurning him. It is trickier than balancing upon a tightrope!"

"Aye indeed, and I am assured that you shall carry yourself well," soothed the older woman.

Winter grimaced slightly.

 _Wish I had that confidence in myself._

Ever since Winter's meltdown several days before, Túiel had been a different creature. Oh, she was no less her starched, traditional self. Yet rigid protocol had been brushed aside to reveal the matronly concern beneath. It was comforting for Winter, to see Túiel's gentleness. However, it did not entirely dispel the shackles of worry which had latched firmly onto Winter's being.

She longed to disregard her cares, to throw them into the wind and stride forward with her usual confidence. She was strong, steely strong, and very proud. Somehow, in the past days, that assurance had been stolen from her. She was no less skilled at erecting walls about herself, in smoothing her features and brushing aside that which might attempt to hurt her.

But she could not convince herself that she didn't care what happened to Middle-earth.

No, she was invested. If she were to trigger disaster today, she would not be able to shove her humiliation aside or ignore the disappointment of her peers.

Winter was terrified.

Shaking herself, Winter glanced once more at the dining room clock.

 _One minute to four._

As if reading her thoughts, Túiel glanced in the same direction. Winter watched as her companion breathed deep and squared her shoulders. Then, the older woman moved to stand directly before her.

In the same instant, the clatter of horses heralded Boromir's arrival.

Túiel dropped to a crouch, deep grey eyes surprisingly calm as they met Winter's.

"You must do this. I have faith in you."

Winter had time only for the briefest bob of her head before Badhor entered to announce Lord Boromir's presence.

Túiel made herself scarce as Winter rose to greet the Steward's son. Her snug riding kit felt claustrophobic after the looser Healer's garment she had worn that morning. Once more—surreptitiously, so as to avoid Túiel's ire—Winter wiped her palms on her divided skirt.

Boromir strode into the room, bringing with him a gust of musky air. He still wore his chainmail hauberk, but had swapped his other armour for a grey shirt and tunic of midnight blue. He wore the fine garments with ease, as if he had simply been born thus.

Meeting her gaze, he smiled.

Winter's heart promptly sank in her chest. One part of her mind scowled viciously, as if she were a slave driver overseeing an unruly bondsman—herself.

 _You must be perfect,_ she told herself firmly, as she executed a curtsey and turned once more to Boromir.

Pride rising, she snorted silently.

 _I will be._

"Lady Faenil," Boromir said, advancing another few steps.

"My Lord Boromir." The significance of his speaking first was not lost on her—for the ruling house of Denethor to address another in that fashion was a great compliment.

"I am gladdened to see the fitful spring weather hath not betrayed us," the man remarked, the arch of his brow projecting a hint of playfulness. "And, thus attired, I presume you are prepared to venture abroad and explore Minas Tirith?"

"Certainly, my Lord."

Boromir gave a slight smile once again. Swivelling, he moved so he stood at Winter's right side, facing the door. He extended his left arm for her to take.

"Shall we proceed?"

Winter supposed her acceptance of his arm was answer enough, for Boromir led her out of the room. He measured his long stride to hers, making polite remarks as they descended the short steps at the front of Lord Lossemen's home.

For her part, Winter was seriously disconcerted. Her resolve was set, sealed and soldered like a sturdy foundation.

 _And somehow,_ she sighed inside, half-amused, _you manage to be very distinctly aware that your hand is tucked around the arm of Boromir of Gondor. Silly girl._

Winter did not dignify that with a response.

"Have you seen much of Minas Tirith, my lady?"

"Precious little," Winter replied, honestly. "I have wandered somewhat about the upper levels—I am afraid walking in solitude does not appeal to me overmuch."

"This shall not do! A lady of Anfalas should not be so neglected, and I shall amend this lack of escort myself, Lady Faenil. If," he paused, eyes flicking to her teasingly, "you shall permit me to escort you this time, as you would not before?"

 _From now on, we work on avoiding blushes under pressure._

 _…_ _but it's_ Boromir. _Member of the Fellowship, son of the Steward, hangs out with Elrond, meets Galadriel,_ Boromir. _And you expect me to be completely calm?_

Winter glanced down as if to check her footing, disgusted with the pink which heated her cheeks.

"Too kind, my Lord," she murmured softly.

Fortunately, they had arrived at the horses, which had been tethered in the open street outside the house. Here was Boromir's mighty destrier, along with a mounted guard of four riders wearing Denethor's livery. Nearby stood two more horses; one for Winter, and one for Badhor, who would provide Lady Faenil's chaperone.

Seeing Winter and Boromir, Badhor led Lúna forward promptly. The black mare whickered softly as she saw her mistress. The latter took this opportunity to release Boromir's arm—her inner fangirl sighing forlornly—and move towards her horse. Lúna's liquid dark eyes surveyed her quietly.

 _You don't have any idea what's going on, do you? And you're not even worried. Well, that makes one of us._

Lúna merely brushed Winter's arm with her velvety lips.

"I stand by my earlier assessment," Boromir remarked, joining Winter and running a broad hand down Lúna's neck. "I have rarely seen a finer horse."

 _Sure helps when Rohan funnels you their best horses. Hats off to you, Calaron. You sure have friends in high places._

"Mm," Winter agreed, running her hand beneath the horse's jaw to check her harness absently. She would not have noticed even had it been twisted thrice around.

"Shall we depart, Lady Faenil?"

Winter nodded at Boromir's suggestion, forcing herself to meet his eyes as she did so. Lady Faenil was not supposed to be reclusive—merely boring. Nevertheless, it was a mighty task to prevent a sparkle from gracing her eyes as she looked up at the flesh-and-blood fictional hero.

 _So much for your stern, determined little pep talk back inside. You're already classified as an idiot over Lachie. Don't add Boromir heartthrob to the list. He is fictional._

 _Looks pretty real to me. But, you know, I could always pinch him to find—_

 _No._

Winter gathered Lúna's reins, accepting them from Badhor with a smile of thanks. Her _byrath_ helped her to slip them over the mare's ears, before moving to provide her with a boost into the saddle. Having ridden horses from childhood, Winter was confident she could have managed as much alone. Still, better not to rock the boat. Badhor steadied Lúna's head and ensured Winter's feet were in the stirrups before he climbed aboard his own horse.

In the interlude, Boromir had managed to get himself atop the huge bay. Seeing Winter was neatly settled in her riding habit—a gown of dark brown with a wide, divided skirt—he nudged his horse forward towards her.

Unprompted, Lúna started forward alongside Boromir's mount, not eager to be outdone by the strange gelding. She seemed content to follow the lead of the other horse. So it was that Winter had very little to do as they started down the fifth tier street, aside from make conversation with Boromir.

Two of the guards had trotted forward to ride ahead of the pair, whilst the others remained behind with Badhor. They were left to ride in company, uninterrupted and unhindered by the folk who moved about on foot. Pedestrians moved aside with alacrity even before they recognised Boromir son of Denethor riding abroad with the strange lady.

"Had you seen much of Gondor, Lady Faenil, until your coming to Minas Tirith?"

Winter shook her head. "No, my Lord. My father did not desire me to travel."

"Alas, that our lands are unsafe for young ladies such as thee to wander at will! For you seem to me, Lady Faenil, as one much inclined towards adventure." Boromir glanced down upon her with a gleam of humour.

 _How come he gets a taller horse, when he's already taller than me? This is terribly unfair._

"Perhaps you have read me amiss," countered Winter, lips twitching in the hint of a smile she could not quite suppress.

"That is a great pity, for I had planned many adventures for this afternoon. Chief amongst them being a visit to Rath Celerdain."

Winter was unable to quench her enthusiasm entirely. "The Lampwrights' Street," she echoed, alight with interest. Then she added, wryly, "Perhaps I spoke too hastily about my disinclination for adventure."

Boromir gave a low chuckle. "I had hoped as much. Come. There is some distance to travel, and we shall not tarry." He nudged his gelding into a brisker walk, and Lúna followed suit.

Winter felt her nerves slowly seeping away as they rode stirrup-to-stirrup along Minas Tirith's main streets. Her brown riding gown was both comfortable and becoming, overlaid by a cloak of cornflower blue. The spring afternoon held a welcome hint of coolness, dusting her face as they moved across the fifth tier and down to the fourth.

She could muddle through this somehow.

"You smile as if you are privy to all the great joys of life, my lady," Boromir remarked.

Winter immediately contained the beatified expression which the beauty of the afternoon had inspired.

"Merely enjoying the day, Lord Boromir," replied she, lightly.

Winter breathed deep, as if to emphasise this. A moment later, she glanced across at her companion. He sat astride the gelding easily, swaying with the movement. His countenance, however, was masked in mild bemusement as he stared at Winter.

 _Someone shoulda taught you not to stare, mate._

"Forgive me," he uttered, almost a chuckle. "Your delight is refreshing. Come, tell me of your interests, Lady Faenil."

 _Huh. Somehow I don't think I'll be able to tell you about the Halo wars with Howard._

"My interests, Lord?"

"What is it that you should be doing this afternoon, had I not claimed your attention?"

 _Did I get a choice?_

 _C'mon, don't pretend you don't wanna just sit here and listen to that beautiful, deep, rumbly voice…_

"I—I do not know, my Lord," Winter said, groping helplessly for some idea. "I suppose I should have composed a letter to my brother, or ventured out for a walk." She paused, lost. "I am learning the harp."

"Ah, forgive me—I forgot that it is fashionable for all ladies of Gondor to dabble in music," Boromir chuckled. "Your brother, Lady Faenil; does he correspond with you?"

Winter nodded slowly. "Of course. He aids my father on our estate, for he it is bequeathed to him, and my father is in poor health of late."

"I am sorry to hear of your father's health. Yet I am surprised you are able to coax your brother into composing epistles to you, my lady!"

Winter blinked. "Why?"

 _Manners, idiot!_

Boromir appeared just as surprised. "Perhaps you have lived in the provinces too long, lady." He grinned conspiratorially. "Letter-writing is the duty of scribes and women!"

 _We-ll._

 _You. Absolute. Dill brain._

 _Shall we take him home and toss him to the feminists?_

"I fear you are mistaken, Lord Boromir," retorted Winter, icy as her name. "Perhaps it is you alone who despise writing such letters, for my brother returns mine willingly enough."

 _Are you really arguing on behalf of your made-up brother?_

 _Of course! The family honour is at stake._

Rather than looking affronted, Boromir chuckled. His eyes dwelt almost merrily upon her haughty face.

"Perhaps you are right, lady, on both accounts. My brother Faramir certainly does not despise letters as I have stated, though he is something of a scholar. For my part, I do not harbour much affection for pen and ink, save when the need arises. Nevertheless," he said, a smile showing beneath his dark stubble, "if the one to whom I wrote was as fair as thee, I might be more like your brother."

 _Despicable flirt._

 _Now, don't ya—_

"Perhaps," she replied coolly. "If you could convince such a lady to write to you."

He laughed. He held his reins in one hand, the other palm splayed across his thigh, and chuckled. The grey eyes, so steady, were full of mirth as he surveyed her.

Winter bristled.

 _Try again, big boy. Give it another go. I will_ wreck _you._

Her satisfaction evaporated like dew on an Australian summer morning. Boromir spurned her insult with merriment, his sense of pride and control holding him far above her petty remark. She could be as caustic as she liked, Winter knew, and he would merely smile upon her as if she amused him.

 _Unless you insulted his kingdom or family._

 _BUT we're not going to do that, are we? Do you have a burning desire to create World War 3?_

 _No._

Thus, Winter bit her tongue and looked stonily out upon the street before them. Boromir made no real effort at talk, though she could see in her peripherals that his lips were pressed together to quench a smile. Rather than trusting herself to remain civil in conversation, Winter soothed her mind with observing their surrounds.

They had weaved lazily across the fourth level and were already on the third, _clopping_ between milliners and general stores. The houses down here were not fine as the noblemen's quarters closer to the citadel. Here dwelt titled families who had fallen out of fortune and favour, along with the moderately affluent middle-classes.

Though she had been warned of as much by Calaron, it was saddening to observe that many houses had been closed off entirely. The windows were shuttered, and the steps to the door had welcomed moss in the absence of busy feet. As they passed one forlorn, greyish building, Boromir turned to her once more.

"The White City does not know the full account of people who dwelt here in bygone years," he said, quietly. "Many houses are abandoned, as you see."

The teasing humour had lessened in his countenance— _damn him_ —and in that moment Winter saw only quiet regret for the decline of his homeland.

 _Charismatic fool. Now you're gonna make me like you again. Pick whether you're going to be lovely or a giant twelve-year-old boy, and stick to it. Please._

"I suppose, my lady, compared to the populous south, Minas Tirith must appear rather empty and desolate."

Winter continued to survey buildings they passed. "Hardly desolate, my Lord. It is very large."

"And yet this—" Boromir gestured widely with one hand "—is merely a guard tower, built to reinforce Osgiliath. Alas, that she stands no more. Minas Tirith is but a shadow of her beauty."

 _And still very beautiful._

Winter turned her face skyward. They had passed through the shoulder spur of Mount Mindolluin once more, and the hulk of the city above hid the mountain proper from her view. Below, the huge, dark outer wall towered many storeys above the lower level of the city.

"How many dwell in the city, my Lord?"

Boromir grunted. "I could not tell you precisely, Lady. Yet there are over 5,000 soldiers of Gondor who dwell here, and another 1,500 who comprise the Guard of the Citadel." He grimaced slightly. "Perhaps my brother might tell you the number of ordinary folk who also reside within the walls and villages beyond, though I am afraid I must disappoint you."

Winter was too busy thinking to absorb the latter part of the speech.

 _6,500 soldiers! A small garrison, all things considered, though I suppose many of the other soldiers would reside south of Ered Nimrais._

 _And if 6,500 of them are soldiers, how many ordinary people would that mean?_

"I suppose," Boromir continued, "that it could be as many as ten ten-thousands. It is long since I last perused my Father's records of such things. Shall it be enough if I promise to speak to Faramir of this matter, when next he returns from his campaign? I am certain he would know."

"Of course," replied Winter, congenially, all the while her mind cried _100,000!_ "It is of no real importance." She exerted herself to display a slight smile. It would not do to ride onwards in bad grace.

Boromir seemed pleased by the return of her good spirits, and proceeded to guide his gelding slightly closer to Lúna, in order to better point out notable landmarks to Winter.

Despite her underlying tension, it was almost impossible not to enjoy the guided tour. Boromir was frank and knowledgeable, speaking of cheery inns and notable herbalists. He described to Winter the setting out of the gardens they passed, and even consented to share a tale or two of his childhood roaming about with Faramir. He was such an intriguing mix of gravity and roguish twinkles that Winter was kept dancing about on her toes.

 _You're enjoying yourself, admit it,_ an accusatory voice cried, as she turned to check that Badhor still followed. Her _byrath_ was plodding along with a contented expression.

 _…_ _Look, it would be hard not to,_ she reasoned.

 _Just don't get too careless. Boromir didn't react when you scolded him just before, but I wouldn't trust to luck._

Therefore, Winter found herself teetering between her acute interest and the necessity of making Lady Faenil seem dull and boring. Somehow, she felt she was failing miserably at the latter. Boromir was enjoying himself immensely, and, try as she might, it was impossible not to gaze about the city with awe. If this was Minas Tirith in its decline, Winter wished fervently she had observed it in the golden years. On the upper levels, the city's failure was less obvious. As they descended, traces of neglect became more obvious.

They finally arrived at the lowest part of the city, overshadowed by the mighty outer wall. Winter smiled. Her grave fears of betraying the program had been smothered almost to nothing. She felt weary, very weary, of navigating the tightrope set before her. She had not blundered; could they really expect her to be as dull as ditch water in such a moment? Oh, she would not discourage Boromir—perhaps next time she would decline his invitation—yet she was determined to enjoy this one.

 _Even if I can feel Mum's eyes on my back, and—_

 _Nuh-uh. Not this afternoon._

"Welcome to the Lampwrights' Street, Lady Faenil," said Boromir, drawing his horse to a halt.

For the first time, Winter realised how very busy the lower levels of Minas Tirith were. By this late hour of the afternoon, the city was throbbing with its lifeblood. People flocked to and fro, bustling on errands or crying their wares. The folk were not as richly attired, and appeared to dress chiefly in cool, dark shades. It was rather like watching a singular mass of dark hair and fair skin as they wove expertly amongst one another. Winter's company was one of very few on horseback; aside from the odd contingent of soldiers and a scattering of noblemen, everyone else moved about on foot.

Boromir chuckled, and at that moment Winter realised she was gaping.

 _Well done._

She snapped her mouth closed, but continued to eye the people. Even in this lowest level, their faces were proud and fair. Many even returned her looks, studying her with unveiled curiosity. Winter carefully tugged her cloak a little further over her hair. It was better, she supposed, to stand out as little as possible when one accompanied Boromir son of Denethor.

"Do you wish to venture into any of the stores, Lady Faenil?"

Winter blinked twice. "Inside?" she said, before realising how foolish she sounded. It merely elicited a smile from Boromir.

"Aye. Are there any purchases you wish to make?"

Winter gaped around stupidly, wondering where to begin. The majority of the supplies she needed had been shipped out from Caoloth. Anything which ran out could be purchased by a servant in Minas Tirith until more goods were shipped in by the Exchange Program. She had never thought to be allowed to venture into the stores in Minas Tirith's lower levels as if she was dropping by Myer on Queen Street Mall. Moreover, she did not carry any money in her purse.

"I—no—my Lord—there are no purchases I require," Winter stammered. Quick as a whiplash, she composed herself and regathered Lúna's reins. She was not here to gawk, but to fend off Boromir's interest.

To his credit, the man was not so quick to take Winter at her word.

"Are you certain you do not wish to at least explore a little on foot?" inquired he, mildly.

Composed as could be, Winter nodded.

"I suppose that should be interesting."

Boromir gave her a wry look, before guiding them to the side of the thoroughfare. He swung easily down from his horse. Before Winter had even begun to disentangle her habit and cloak, the Steward's son was standing beside her left stirrup.

In spite of all her resolutions to the contrary and her calmed nerves, Winter felt heat flood her face.

 _Surely not here, in front of everyone! We are only friends! Not even friends! Bare acquaintances! Strangers, in fact._

She glanced about desperately for Badhor. A moment's search found her _byrath_ moving towards her hastily— _but still not fast enough…_

 _You don't have a choice._

 _I can't let him touch me!_

 _Win, you're being silly._

 _He's treating me like a child!_

 _He's helping you off a horse!_

 _In front of everyone!_

 _Because he's polite!_

 _What's everyone going to think?_

 _Oh, I dunno, maybe something like, "Why is that woman sitting on her horse staring blankly at Boromir for a good ten minutes?"_

Winter cursed inwardly. Fleeting seconds had passed. Boromir glanced up at her inquiringly, before offering her a hand.

She took it.

Meaning to dismount in ordinary fashion, Winter slipped her feet free of the stirrups. She froze, realising that such a manoeuvre would certainly result in her booted foot colliding with Boromir's head.

 _Hm._

To her mortification, she realised she would have to lift her leg over Lúna's withers and dismount facing the Captain-General.

 _Lord bloody Boromir strikes again. Badhor—ride faster next time._

Gritting her teeth at the indignity of the circumstance, Winter lifted her right leg over the mare gingerly. Her shift in weight caused her to lurch forward. Boromir's tall shoulder was there. Thus, Winter's first pedestrian journey through the lower city began by being lowered to the ground by the Steward's son.

 _Revolting._

She barely resisted the urge to squeak and flee when his hand had brushed her waist. She met his gaze almost accusingly. He placed her gently upon the cobblestones, grey eyes twinkling like burnished metal, and turned to greet Badhor. To his credit, Winter's _byrath_ looked remarkably unruffled. As soon as Boromir's back was turned to secure the horses, the older man gave Winter a look which was both teasing and horrified.

 _Well, looks like I'm in for it again._

* * *

 _13_ _th_ _March, 3007_

 _…_ _so we wandered about for what felt like an hour. I think by that point I had abandoned hope of being a satisfactory person for Badhor and Túiel. Like, screw it. I'd already chucked it in. I just tottered about the shops with Boromir in tow, admiring things. And for that hour it was lovely; I saw so many odd trinkets and herbs and flowers. Oh, and the clothing! Nothing was overly nice, all pretty tacky, but it was rather delightful to wander in a milliner's shop and realise that this wasn't a Middle-earth display, it was a genuine store!_

 _Of course there was bad news waiting at the end of the visit, but I'll put that off a while yet. Boromir, throughout this little foray, was well worth describing. He trailed behind me, looking rather like a proud older brother as he showed his naïve little sis around. And then when anyone would look at him and realise he was the Steward's son, he would get this stern, gruff-kinda expression on his face. Like, "If you point out who I am, I'll smack you around the ears." It was pretty hilarious, aside from his weird protective kinda look when he was helping me. Cripes._

 _That's probably my problem. Badhor saw the whole thing, so when we got home we sat down with Túiel and had it out. I mean, no one yelled at me, but Badhor just had this resigned look on his face. Túiel's pretty sharp, she realised straight away our attempts to bore Boromir hadn't worked. Looks like I failed again, Jimmy—don't look so knowing! But I shan't bore you with details about that. I could tell they were both excessively disappointed—but then, I'm used to that! It comes as naturally to me as my excellent sense of humour (I can see you smirking in the future. Admit it, I am outrageously amusing!)_

 _Aside from that, everything has been grand. I've got 2 new dresses for Tuilere, the spring festival. I know how much you adore hearing about fashion, so I will describe them in detail. No? You don't wish to hear about the precise weave of my new green silk gown? Shame on you!_

 _My work in the Houses has been going well. I think everyone—except Gaerel, bless her acid soul—has forgotten how I managed to reset Rostor's arm. Well, Rostor still remembers. He's left me several tokens of appreciation over the last few days, but I haven't seen him yet. Still, it was thoughtful. James, why don't you give me presents? I'm sure I'd like you loads better if you did. Anyway, I'm back to regular duties with Ioreth which is rather nice. She's beginning to trust me with more tasks, so I'm getting to use more of my ninja physiotherapy skills._

 _Boromir hasn't scheduled our next date yet—woe betide me—so at the moment I'm just sitting tight while everyone gets ready for Tuilere. He didn't mention another meeting when we said goodbye yesterday afternoon. Don't think I've ever been so thankful in my life! Maybe I did manage to scare him off. Cross your fingers for me, Jimbo._

 _Hope everything is well with you! Pretty disappointed you haven't snuck into the Lonely Mountain yet for me. I expect a sackful of gold when you come back to see me._

 _Missing you, you silly idiot. Who am I to insult when I don't have your delightful company?_

 _Sending lots of love in the hopes it will convince you to steal gold for me,_

 _Win._

* * *

Winter skimmed the letter over again with her eyes. Her reply to James' most recent letter was a lengthy one. It was a profound relief to spill out the tale of the day before—even if she did paint it in rosy hues.

 _Are you really that used to being a disappointment?_

She scowled and flapped the pages about to let them dry.

 _Trust me, I'm a pro._

As she placed the parchment back on the desk, the rest of the letter caught Winter's eye. She stared down at it accusingly, as if to blame the quill and ink for the words written upon the page. Bitter, shrouded sarcasm, cleverly woven in a tapestry of witty tales. Would he make note of it? Oh no, she was far too skilful for that.

What made her feel acutely unnerved, however, was the fact that the same letter would speak volumes to Lachie. He would look up at her with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing look in the bright blue eyes. Pitying, almost. Undoubtedly compassionate.

 _Too close._

No, she would not write of these things to Lachie. His letter, already complete, sat to one side. It was a light, detached retelling of the previous days, dwelling far longer on a description of Minas Tirith's streets than her encounters with Boromir. Architecture was, surely, a safe topic. He could not read into it— _or become jealous._

Yes. Definitely safer.

Thus James became Winter's confidant, in a measured sense. Spilling out that epistle had been cathartic. And, more to the point, she could seal them imminently and give them to Aeglossel for posting.

Shaking herself, Winter stretched her arms above her head. The cool afternoon found her in her bedchambers, scribbling away at her desk. She was wrapped in a creamy rug to ward off the slight chill which hovered in the room.

Aeglossel had been in to tidy whilst she was busy in the Houses that day. Consequently, her chambers had the freshly starched look of a hotel. Not a feather in her doona was out of place, nor was there a speck of dust upon the floor. It was a little too sterile for Winter, who had been disconcerted to discover her artistic scattering of books and papers had been clinically stacked to one side.

Winter rose. Her slippered feet padded across the timber floor.

Since the first day she had occupied these chambers, Winter had fallen in love with the view from her balcony. Lord Lossemen's manor had an unobstructed view over the Pelennor. The colonnaded porch cupped the light of the day and held it, glimmering, for Winter's perusal.

She rested her hands upon the balcony railing, just as she had done so many days before in Caoloth. That evening had been starlit and icy. Today was gilt in rosy hues, warmth splaying across Winter's body as she leaned out from the rail.

So much had changed since that night. She could still see Lachie's lolling form on the chair behind her, a silly grin plastered on his face. She'd been elated then, excitement mingling with uncertainty.

 _Now?_

Winter sighed, leaning her weight upon her arms as the sunlight lapped at her. Her relocation to Minas Tirith had not been _quite_ as wholly delightful as she might have hoped. Oh, the White City was like a dream. She had morphed into a model pupil in the Houses, dancing to Ioreth's frantic tune.

 _And you can't claim that Túiel and Badhor dislike you at all!_

No, they did not, she acknowledged with a vicious puff of exhaled air. But it did not diminish her acute sense of _unsettledness_. Attempting to isolate the feeling was like chasing tendrils of mist. Winter pursed her lips indignantly. An inner weight began to settle on her, clinging like spider's webs.

 _Why is everything so hard to put into words?_

The thought was soft; like a whisper, the barest disturbance of her consciousness. It thrummed within her.

 _What I wouldn't give for Abby right now. She would wrangle out of me what's wrong._

 _Mm._

 _You know what's the worst bit?_

 _What?_

 _That I don't even remember… I mean…_ Winter paused, struggling to even articulate the notion internally. _I can't quite remember when this began to creep inwards. When did I begin to feel this… listless underneath? Oh, there are moments of happiness—_ involuntarily, Lachie's kiss sprang to mind— _but whenever I let myself stop, think slowly… this. This creeping, clammy sense of pointlessness. Inadequacy. Whenever anything goes amiss_ —Boromir— _it erupts in a tidal wave of feeling._

She cared. She was a cyclone of frustration at herself—and the world in general, at times. And yet she was weighed down by a painful sense of helplessness. Apathy. Inadequacy.

 _Oh gosh, even my own_ thoughts _don't make sense._

She lowered her eyes from the land to the balcony rail. It was sprinkled with several dried leaves and gritty dust.

 _Winter Newhall, you've made it this damn far,_ she thought, after a moment. _So damn far. You're in Middle-earth. You kept your brain in one piece for long enough to get here. And you are strong—stronger than your Mum would suppose._

 _Why do—_

 _No, stop. You've got this. If you bloody give up on me now, you will be a failure. Until that point, you stop your whining and give Boromir the boring Lady Faenil he deserves._

It took a few moments for Winter to steel herself to this resolution.

 _Damn it, yes. I've been off my game. I've been starry-eyed and enchanted. Bloody hell Boromir, you aren't gonna get me again._

She squared her shoulders. Lady Faenil would be unshakeable.

And beneath this iron-hard resolution a tiny voice echoed to silence:

 _When will you stop pushing this away?_

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE**

 **There is 11! I know I promised this would come the night after 10, but I just got busy and it didn't flow as well as it should've. I'm much happier with it now.**

 **I had quite a few reviews which have made me absolutely _delighted_ so I will (below) be adding a few comments for you guys. Some of you are reviewing through anon so that's the main reason I'm writing my comments here.**

 **In terms of how the plot's going, I'm so happy to see a positive response to my version of Boromir! It seems a lot of people liked how I portrayed him, and that's always a delight for a fan-fic writer to hear! I'm also getting some great feedback on Winter and where the story is going.**

 **HINT: None of you have _any_ idea where this is going. Trust me. None of you are getting close. I'm so excited to unveil it to you.**

 **Anyway, the reviewer comments will always be spoiler-free, as I don't want to ruin anything. However, I would LOVE if you asked some questions via review and I will answer them in the next chapter posted!**

 **Have a great night, lovelies x**

* * *

 **REVIEWER COMMENTS**

 **katnor** : _I'm kind of (heartlessly) glad you're feeling torn over the Winter-Lachie thing with the introduction of Boromir. That's what I wanted, I guess. Not a stupid love triangle (and rest assured there's more depth to it than you'd assume), but difficulty and being torn. There's more to come, so get excited. :P_

 **gginsc:** _The rich and powerful indeed! Well there's one rich, powerful man who will continue to be a nuisance in future; dear Boromir, bless his heart!_

 **Guest:** _Thank you for your kind review! I appreciate your comments on Boromir and the consistency of the story. Lovely to hear. Thankyou! I hope the ride was up to your expectations._

 **chisscientist:** _Complications indeed!_

 **Lauren:** _This warms my heart! I hope your friends like the story. Thank you for your review, and fingers crossed it will continue to live up to your expectations. :)_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12 - Purpose**

* * *

 _15_ _th_ _March, 3007_

"It must be here somewhere, Badhor," muttered Winter, scowl hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. "Surely you know your way around Minas Tirith, seeing as you were born here?"

If her tone was waspish, Badhor paid it no mind.

"Nay, milady. It is a little much to expect that any one person should be acquainted with every cobblestone of Minas Tirith's many streets. Alas, that I did not pay more heed to the location of the finest dressmakers in the upper levels!"

 _All right sass-master, cool it. I was just asking._

"Perhaps we ought to ask for directions?" she inquired instead, doubtful.

The pair were standing in the midst of a desolate street on the sixth tier, flanked by an escort of Sam and Will. They had ventured to a part of the city Winter had not yet explored. The sixth level formed an uninterrupted circle all the way around Minas Tirith, broken only by the huge spur of rock jutting out on the eastern side. This did not stop the level from curling about on itself, as the street merely tunnelled through the spur to complete the circle.

On the western side behind the city, this spur was only as high as the fifth level, which formed the path to Rath Dínen. Those lower levels were incomplete circles, as the walls met Mount Mindolluin behind and could go no further. However, shops and residences filled the higher sixth tier even on the western, mountain side, behind the Citadel. They lacked the exquisite views of the buildings which faced in any other direction, instead staring along Rath Dínen's rocky path to the raw face of Mount Mindolluin. Winter had not ventured there before, instead preferring to walk about in sight of the Pelennor. Never before had she been tempted to investigate the sixth level behind the Citadel itself.

Until today.

"There is no need to ask for directions," replied Badhor, easily. His eyes scanned up and down the street once more.

 _Men. Even in another world, they won't ask for directions! Honestly!_

"We shall have to, in a moment," Winter retorted. "Are we too far along? Could we have missed it?"

"I should not think so." Her _byrath_ sniffed haughtily. He seemed somewhat affronted that Winter should question his navigating.

"Let us try, at least. Come, think what Mistress Glavorlien shall do if I miss my appointment!"

Badhor glanced down and muttered into his neat-trimmed beard. "Keep your gown for herself, and wear it to Tuilere?"

Winter could not help the bubble of laughter which erupted. Her dancing eyes fell on Will, who was struggling mightily to keep countenance.

"Come, Badhor, be serious," Winter grinned, after a moment.

"Forgive my intrusion, Master Badhor, but perhaps milady is correct. It does strike me as entirely possible that we might have missed the building. Did not Mistress Túiel say that Glavorlien's was an unobtrusive establishment?" suggested Will.

Begrudgingly, Badhor nodded. "Let us make another circuit of this part of town. There is still ten minutes until your fitting, Lady Faenil. Perhaps we shall find it ere you must reconcile yourself to Mistress Glavorlien making off with your property."

The contingent all chuckled once more as Badhor led them back the way they had come.

Winter scanned the street appraisingly as they passed each building.

 _You know she's good business when she's this hard to find, and people still come to her!_

"Milady—there?"

Winter's gaze snapped to where Will was pointing. He indicated a stone townhouse, built flush against its neighbour. There was nothing to distinguish it from an ordinary home, save a very small wooden sign. It was propped above the door frame and read: _Mistress Glavorlien, Minas Tirith's finest dressmaker_. Winter did not even register that the sign was written in Sindarin, so grateful was she to have found it.

"Ah! Wi—we have found it!" She cut herself off before she used the guard's Earth name; Badhor and Túiel thoroughly disapproved of this small act of rebellion.

Will merely bobbed his head as properly befitted a guard who had been of service to his mistress.

"Observe, Lady Faenil," said Badhor, with something that almost comprised a smirk, "the capacity for the native-born Gondorian to orientate us without the need of aid."

Winter shot him an arch look over her shoulder as she strode forward. The _byrath_ had to scarper to arrive at the door ahead of her and hold it open.

Just as Badhor was about to push open the door, Winter heard a distressing sound; Sam coughed. She had heard him coughing over a week before, when he and Will had escorted her to the Houses. Now, however, the sound was far worse; a frame-wrenching, gasping sound which made Winter feel ill.

Reflexively, Winter's head snapped towards Sam. Her escort was standing a little behind his partner. He bobbed his head down, one arm up to cover his mouth as the coughs shattered him. Despite his half-covered face, Winter could see his skin was greyish and his forehead glistened with sweat.

 _Oh gosh, how did I miss that when we set out this morning?_ her thoughts jolted. _Goodness, he sounded sick a week ago, but I dismissed it—stupid me. He was coughing, that time he took me to the Houses… eight? Days ago? He's probably got pneumonia, and no one's doing anything about it!_

"Badhor," she said immediately, voice adopting a sharp tone of command. She spoke more softly the second time. "Sam is unwell. Perhaps Will ought to escort him home?"

Badhor's countenance morphed swiftly from sharp disapproval to concern. His own quick eyes flipped to Sam, who looked back apologetically. Winter realised immediately that the neglect of one of the guards fell upon Badhor's shoulders; Sam was under his jurisdiction as the manager of Lord Lossemen's household. Despite the unorthodoxy of the situation, the _byrath_ nodded.

"Aye. You ought to be in bed, man."

Sam rallied well, his face set in protest. "Nay, Master Badhor. I am well enough to do my duty."

Badhor gave him a hard look. The guard quailed slightly under his superior's scrutiny.

"You have done well to stand at attention this long, lad. Go home and rest. None shall think worse of you for it."

Will nudged his friend on the arm, and coaxed him with a few soft-spoken words. It was not long before Sam gave a grim nod.

"Forgive us, Lady Faenil," Will intoned, nodding respectfully.

"Please, take him home and see him to bed," was Winter's blunt response. Will had the good humour to grin.

"Aye, milady."

The two men shuffled off slowly along the street. Sam did his best to walk unaided, but Winter was pleased to see that Will stayed close by.

 _And this afternoon,_ Winter vowed resolutely, _I will attend to him._

She was twinged with guilt about her neglect of the Earth-born guard.

"You have sharp eyes and ears, milady," muttered Badhor, reaching out once more to push open the door to Mistress Glavorlien's store. It appeared she was not the only one who felt badly about Sam's sickness. "Forgive me, that I did not notice sooner. He should have been of little use had trouble come to you."

Winter's lips quirked in a smile as she paused on the store's threshold. "It is not me I am worried about. He is from my home; I would not see him die from a trifling cold."

Tucking her concern for Sam reluctantly aside, Winter stepped forward into Mistress Glavorlien's store.

The house in which she found herself was brightly lit and immaculately clean. The floor was unpolished stone free of any kind of dust or dirt. Winter almost stooped to check her shoes before entering. It was a large entrance hall, bare of almost any furniture except several stiff chairs, a low table, and potted plant which stood rigidly to attention. Upon the table rested a small bell. It was hardly what Winter had expected from a seamstress of such great repute.

"Sit, milady," urged Badhor, "and I shall ring for Mistress Glavorlien."

 _For someone who denied any knowledge of this place, he seems to know what's going on pretty well._

Winter eased herself onto the hard chair. Badhor reached for the small bell and rang it firmly. Mere seconds later, the single door leading out of the entrance hall was flung open.

Winter had not yet seen anyone truly overweight in Minas Tirith, but Mistress Glavorlien came closest. She was a plump, robust looking woman clad in dark blue. The gown was simple but precisely tailored. Most surprising, however, was the uniqueness of her appearance. There was nothing willowy or raven-haired about Mistress Glavorlien; she was short, rosy and curvaceous. Her hair curled wildly about her face, glinting auburn in the soft light. Her merry appearance was juxtaposed with her cool, flat expression.

 _Huh._

"Ah! Lady Faenil!" Glavorlien moved towards her at a stately pace which belied the speed of her arrival. "You are early."

"Mistress Glavorlien," Winter replied, rising from her chair gratefully. "I hope it will not inconvenience you."

"Not at all, my Lady; I revere punctuality. Come, and we shall begin." Her eyes flickered to Badhor almost dismissively. "You may wait here."

Badhor succumbed to this decree with surprising meekness.

"I shall remain here and await your summons, Lady Faenil."

Winter nodded in her most regal fashion. Mistress Glavorlien indicated that she should pass through the inner door, which she did.

Today, Winter was presented with a new form of challenge. Since their horseback ride, Boromir had called again and escorted a dreary Lady Faenil on a short walk about the upper levels. She had managed to avoid a second outing by professing herself occupied today, and thus been given the opportunity to adopt a new façade. Yesterday's Lady Faenil was dull; today, she was imperious and lofty.

 _Much more fun,_ she decided doggedly, as Mistress Glavorlien followed her into this second room. As a middle-ranked noblewoman, Faenil could not afford to be too haughty in company. In front of a seamstress—even a famous one such as Glavorlien—she was able to play her part to the full.

 _Not that I've had a chance to be out in company much, either,_ she mused. _Not until after Tuilere. Which is five days away._

"The dress is all but finished, my Lady," Glavorlien informed her, closing the door behind with a muffled _thud_.

"Good," Winter replied, glancing about the room as if to scrutinise the quality of the furnishings. Her real motive was far more innocent.

Just as with the outer room, Mistress Glavorlien's inner chamber was aggressively utilitarian. The floors were just as bare and spotless, and the furniture minimal. From where she stood, Winter saw a series of half-dressed mannequins through an archway. Another room led down a narrow corridor, and Winter caught a glimpse of rolls of fabric at the far end. What differentiated this room from the outer one, however, was the rows of gowns which stretched along two walls.

It was as refreshing as a vibrant palette of watercolour paints. Each was of a different hue, and varied from the floatiest of chiffons to heavy brocade to papery silk. Winter had to dig her nails into her own hand to prevent herself from gazing open-mouthed at the lavish display. The dresses hung limp on hooks, and still managed to convey their richness despite the unpretentious display.

Instead of blinking, starry-eyed, Winter pressed her lips together. Her expression was light, without being awed.

Nevertheless, Mistress Glavorlien must have recognised that Lady Faenil admired what she saw.

"I am pleased to see you have good taste, Lady Faenil," the seamstress stated flatly. "The fabric your companion provided for your gown is pleasing."

Winter gave the slightest nod of her head. "Túiel knows her business."

Glavorlien returned the gesture of agreement. "Indeed. Come hither, and we shall try on this gown. I daresay it shall need no alterations, for you are very like Túiel described. Nevertheless, we must see."

The seamstress indicated they progress further into her stone home. The next room Winter found herself in could almost have been a dressing room from Earth. A screen partitioned off one corner in the name of modesty, and three carefully-positioned mirrors allowed a lady to observe herself from all angles.

Most exciting, however, was a gown of cool grey-blue which was draped over a mannequin. Glavorlien picked it up with reverent hands and held it before Winter's eyes for her to peruse it.

Truth be told, Winter had not seen the fabric Túiel had chosen—but she could not deny that her companion had done exceptionally well. The bodice of the dress was made of light silvery blue silk, embroidered at the front from bust to waist. The embroidery was like a tangled vine done in darker blue cottons and shimmery beads. Similar work had been done about the wrists of the gown. The waist was tight and cinched by a band, whilst the entire full skirt was also traced by beaded embroidery. This was paler, blending with the colour of the silk so that it shimmered entrancingly.

 _It's perfect._

"It is well-made," she remarked instead, striving to contain her delight in the garment. Her countenance maintained its cool placidity. "But shall it fit?"

Glavorlien opened her mouth, offended. "Lady Faenil! A Mistress Glavorlien gown will _always_ fit."

Winter raised an eyebrow slightly, as if in lofty scepticism. Unheeding Glavorlien's barely audible mutterings, she allowed the seamstress to help her out of her day-gown.

"We shall have to tighten your lacings," Glavorlien remarked, her hands resting on either side of Winter's already-slim waist. "The dress is made smaller than your regular gowns."

 _All g. Didn't want to breathe anyway._

The pair stood before the array of mirrors. The blue gown was awaiting its new wearer. Winter stared at herself, stripped down to the traditional undergarments of Gondorian women. They were mostly comfortable; even her corset was not painful to wear. Still, lacing it any tighter would transform it from snug to restrictive.

"As you wish, Glavorlien."

"To the rail, then," the woman said, nudging Winter gently in the back. They moved away from the mirrors to a stout wooden rail embedded in the stone wall.

 _Invented for torture such as this?_

Resolutely, Winter gripped the timber surface and braced herself for Glavorlien's tugging. The seamstress was as gentle as could be expected, but Winter still felt her lungs jerked free of air more than once.

As she endured Glavorlien's ministrations, Winter half-wished the seamstress was chattier. The clean, functional décor of the rooms appeared to be a reflection of the owner's personality. Glavorlien evidently knew her work. However, she was not the tittering, know-it-all tradeswoman Winter had half-hoped to find. There was to be no city gossip, no busy-body prattling.

 _A shame, too,_ Winter sighed, as the laces were coaxed tighter around her middle. _I bet Glavorlien knows everybody's business. All the ladies who would visit here together must have all the goss._

"I believe that shall be enough," puffed the seamstress, at length. Apparently pulling corset laces was hard work.

Winter straightened up. She could still move, sit and breathe—mostly—but the boned garment was already growing more uncomfortable. She was glad that the ladies of Minas Tirith only wore them this tight to special functions, and that they did not favour the tiny waists of Victorian women on Earth. They were tight and boned, certainly, but more to smooth the figure— _and give you great cleavage._

Wordlessly, Glavorlien held up the blue gown. Winter stepped in amongst the vast swathes of fabric carefully.

 _What does one say, to learn of the court gossip from a tight-lipped businesswoman like this?_ Winter pondered, as Glavorlien flittered about adjusting the dress. It fit like a glove, sliding perfectly over her confined waist.

"Have you had many customers as Tuilere nears, Mistress?" the girl inquired, after the silence grew heavy.

Glavorlien did not allow her thoughtful eyes to leave the dress. "A fair score, lady."

 _…_ _and?_

"Oh," Winter replied, lamely. The gown was now in place, but Winter could not see herself in the mirror as yet.

Silence fell once more. Winter longed to kick herself. At least with Boromir, her dull wordlessness achieved what she wished. Here, she looked a simpleton.

"I hope I shall give you credit where credit is due then, Mistress Glavorlien," Winter said at last, as a welcome burst of inspiration enveloped her.

Glavorlien met her gaze with questioning hazel eyes.

"Forgive me, milady; I do not understand."

"Oh!" smiled Winter, graciously. "I merely meant to imply that I hoped to recognise your fine work at Tuilere and attribute it to you in due course. If the attire of the other ladies is as lovely as this—" Winter's hands fell to the beaded silk skirt "—then I shall be in great company, indeed."

 _There, Win; you've done it._

Glavorlien's rosy skin flushed even pinker under the burden of the compliment.

"You are very kind, milady," she murmured, turning bright eyes to a further checking of the fine embroidery.

Winter also glanced down, triumphant at her success.

"Did you bead this yourself, Glavorlien?"

"Not entirely," the seamstress admitted. "I have four girls under me these days, and they worked upon the skirt. The bodice and sleeves are my work."

"It truly is exquisite."

The colour in Glavorlien's countenance bled up to her hairline.

"Thank you, milady."

Glavorlien straightened. "Come to the looking-glass."

Winter obliged willingly, moving to stand before the mirror.

Her compliments of the seamstress were thoroughly warranted. The gown was even lovelier upon a live figure. Winter was also silently smug about bodice; her corset showed off her bust to best advantage, whilst the wide square neckline of the dress aided it nobly.

 _Better not lean over at the festival, or half of Gondor will be able to admire your assets._

 _Lewd!_

"It is lovely," Winter confessed, abandoning the guise of a haughty noblewoman.

Glavorlien smiled, the expression setting off her robust colouring to best advantage.

"Nor will it need alteration," the woman added.

Winter twirled gently, shaking her head in wonderment. "No indeed."

 _All right little girl, get your act together._

Turning to meet Glavorlien's gaze, Winter found her resolutions to remain aloof crumbling. She strained mightily to grasp the threads of her haughty demeanour, and found them slipping from her grasp. Glavorlien's earlier dull expression was replaced by one of glinting enthusiasm. The seamstress had lost her dispassionate look.

"How shall you fashion your hair for the Steward's ball?" Glavorlien inquired, fingering a lock of her own flyaway mop.

Winter gave a slight smile, releasing caution. "I confess I had given it little thought. We of Anfalas lag a little behind the fashions of Minas Tirith. How are the fashionable ladies wearing it these days?"

"Fashioning it upwards is still common," Glavorlien remarked, "as you wear yours today, Lady Faenil. Many of the younger ladies let it down, adorned with circlets and pins and tiny braids. The older women have always fashioned it in intricate braids, and I believe it is growing more common once more."

"And what should you suggest, to accompany this gown?" inquired Winter, a hint of playfulness in her eyes. For a flickering moment, she allowed her gaze to stray to her figure in the mirror. She looked like a queen, not a simple girl from Brisbane.

"Out," Glavorlien stated, resolutely. "You shall stand out as a beacon in the darkness, milady."

 _I should pass that one onto Túiel. It's poetry._

Winter wrinkled her nose slightly. "I doubt that drawing such attention would be wise, Mistress Glavorlien."

The other laughed, and then her countenance stilled. "Perhaps it is a little late for veiling yourself, Lady Faenil; all the ladies of the court must now know your name, and watch you with jealous eyes for the favour you receive."

Something within Winter stiffened; fear.

"Oh?" She gave Glavorlien an appraising look. "Why is that?"

The seamstress started, as if realising where her tongue had led her. Her face closed off once more under Winter's cool stare.

"Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. We had best wrap your gown, as I expect another customer in half an hour."

Glavorlien would not meet her gaze again. For the next twenty minutes, the two women worked in silence to loosen Winter's corset and clad her in day-garb once more. The blue gown was packed carefully away as Winter straightened her hair.

She knew exactly what Glavorlien was hinting at.

 _"…_ _all the ladies of the court must now know your name, and watch you with jealous eyes..."_

Boromir.

Lord bloody Boromir. Why was it always him?  
Winter entertained no doubts that her acquaintance with the Steward's son was the root of Glavorlien's remark. "Lady Faenil" had been the source of some speculation through her work at the Houses, but now the tales must run riot. Lord Boromir had visited her thrice, a woman of moderate standing and little consequence. Oh, no other folk of Minas Tirith were acquainted with her as yet. No, none could vouch for her character. Could she be a spirit, a ghost? Certainly not, for she had been seen abroad with Lord Boromir. She was undoubtedly real, yet seemingly retiring. What was it about this flame-headed slip of a girl that fascinated the Captain-General?

 _One does not simply hide bright red hair_ , Winter groused silently. _Damnable thing, gossip. Oh, but I wish Boromir'd never found me in the store room that day. Would've saved a heap of trouble._

Still, Glavorlien's slip had put Winter back on her guard.

 _You should've realised that you'd still be the centre of gossip,_ her critic scolded. _Even when you play your part perfectly, the fact Boromir has sought you out more than once is something to remark over. He's not really a socialite, as he's told you himself. Stay on your toes, Winter Newhall._

Winter bid Glavorlien a grave farewell moments later. Winter's dress was produced by one of Glavorlien's minions—who had materialised out of nowhere bearing the parcel—and Badhor took it gravely. The seamstress waited silently as the _byrath_ helped Winter into her cloak, and they stepped outside. She regretted that she had ended her conversation with Glavorlien on such a sour note. For a time, they had been almost merry. In her defensiveness over the mention of Boromir, Winter had become lofty and cool once more, and the seamstress retreated with equal swiftness.

 _Ah well. At least she told me how to do my hair before I sent her scarpering back to her shell._

After they had ambled some thirty metres down the road, Badhor turned to Winter.

"Did all go well, Lady Faenil? You are remarkably silent. Was the gown not to your liking?"

Winter sighed, glad that this part of the city was empty.

"The dress is wonderful, Badhor. All was going well until Mistress Glavorlien gave a thinly veiled hint about Boromir's attentions to me."

"Ah." He gave a slow nod. "I am scarcely surprised, milady."

Winter scratched her cheek. "Nor am I, Badhor. I had just hoped that my dull behaviour would discourage Boromir, and quench the rumours. Unfortunately, it appears that I was wrong." She could not conceal the bitterness in her tone.

Badhor patted her hand conciliatorily. Winter's fingers were wrapped about her _byrath_ 's elbow as they walked. His voice was kind and his presence reassuring as he matched his long legs to hers. If it seemed odd to make such a confession to a middle-aged man, it did not occur to Winter at the time. He was like an estranged uncle come to call.

"Do not blame yourself, milady. I was witness to yesterday's stroll, and you played your part admirably."

Winter glanced up at him with hopeful eyes. "Really?"

"Quite."

Winter breathed a half-sigh of relief. It did not undo the knot in her stomach, but it stiffened her resolve to conquer Minas Tirith's court, just as she had conquered every other challenge in her short life. It also caused her to press her mouth shut; she would not prattle to her companion like a spineless girl.

"And we shall continue in just such a way," she stated, resolutely. "Now, may we take a slight detour? I wish to step into the Houses briefly." She smiled up at the kindly face beside her. "I believe there are some herbs that would ease Sam's cough."

The look Badhor gave her was one of such affection that it almost erased Winter's earlier discomfort.

* * *

 _16_ _th_ _March, 3007_

Every time Winter heard the clatter of shod hooves outside Lord Lossemen's home, her heart stopped. There were few horses in Minas Tirith, and so the sound generally signified Lord Boromir's descent.

Today she was given no warning of his arrival. He came on foot, curse him.

The visit was like a sudden burst of painfully bright light; it stunned her senses, and retreated so swiftly she began to question its existence. There was nothing mild or soft about Boromir son of Denethor.

Winter had been composing a letter to Lachie when Badhor announced Lord Boromir's arrival. Her epistles to Lachie had remained difficult to write. Still, as she heard Boromir's tramp upon the stair, she wished fervently she could be left to struggle through her letter-writing. After Glavorlien's comments of the day before, any contact with the Steward's son was galling.

 _This visit will just stir the gossip pot even further…_

Once again, Boromir's presence was like a looming sentinel. He filled the drawing room, arresting her attention and filling her with something akin to fear. Oh, he was not frightening. No, Winter merely hated and feared how he made her feel. His mighty frame was both imposing and pleasing, and his bold manners left her feeling helpless before him. Her charade left her to protest against him feebly, Lady Faenil being unable to summon any resolve to deny Lord Boromir anything. And so Winter stood, feeling both nervous and furious, as Boromir smiled down upon her.

 _You blooming chauvinist,_ she growled, as she returned his gesture with a sweet smile of her own. _I'd love to take you sky diving with a slit parachute._

"Lady Faenil," he had rumbled, eyes bright. "I am afraid this is to be but a fleeting visit. Nay! do not put aside your writing, for I shall be but a moment."

Winter placed her quill back on the desk. "How do you fare today, my Lord?"

He laughed. "Oh, well enough. And I know you are well, for you look it, so I will not ask that question. I am pressed for time; I am on an errand for my father."

She had seized the petty chance deftly. "What kind of errand?"

 _Waste his time, just as he wastes yours. Satisfaction._

Boromir had merely raised his hands in a cheerful protest. "I shall happily tell you on the morn, Lady Faenil. Suffice it to say that it is a trifling task which I shall take no pleasure in, when I might spend the morning with you."

 _Why do you_ always _blush?_

"You are too kind, my Lord."

"Perhaps," he teased. "At any rate, I come to offer an invitation."

"Oh?" Winter looked up at him wide-eyed. She adopted her best simpleton expression.

 _Should I feel bad that I picture Emily when I try to look like a stupid girl?_

"Two invitations, in fact." He paused, switching deftly to Sindarin as he voiced his next request. "Lady Faenil, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the Tuilere Dance and Planting of the Trees?"

It took all Winter's self-control not to swear aloud.

Her eyes shifted instinctively to meet Badhor's. Her _byrath_ stood to one side, his face implacable.

 _No answers there._

 _Can you rightly refuse? He's the Steward's son. Besides, it's just the maypole dance thingy the kids do and the tree-planting at the Houses. It's not like he's going to ask you to—_

"I also desire to lead you into my Father's Ball that evening. However, as you are new to Court, you shall enter unaccompanied, without a partner. I hope, regardless, that we shall dance together in the course of the evening." He grinned boyishly. "Unless, of course, you are already engaged and accompanying another to both events?"

The way Boromir intoned his final query caused Winter to flare red. It was not a coy blush of embarrassment, but rather irritation about his assumptions. He teased as if it were impossible any could compare to his company. She wanted to slap him—and probably would have, if Badhor had not shot her a lightning glance of warning.

Winter breathed deep. Boromir was twinkling at her as if he perceived the flush on her cheeks to stem from his flattery.

 _Lucky for him he doesn't know how close I am to removing his ears._

"I am not otherwise engaged, my Lord."

"All is well, then! And now for my second invitation, Lady Faenil; shall you ride abroad with me tomorrow, and venture beyond the city to the Pelennor? It is beautiful at this time of year."

Winter could only nod. It was enough for him.

"I await your company tomorrow, then. The usual time?"

Another nod.

Boromir gave a slight chuckle. "You are overcome this afternoon I see, Lady Faenil."

 _If you had any idea how much I want to lynch you—_

"I must depart, and allow you to continue your writing." He bowed. Winter managed to curtsey in response. Her face was still warm with anger, and her eyes lowered. Thus it took her by surprise when Boromir reached forth with both hands. One clasped hers, drawing it upwards to kiss it. With his other hand, he gently tilted her chin upwards until she looked at him. His forefinger rested beneath her jaw. The action rattled her.

"Your eyes are much nicer when they look upward—at me," he chided her lightly. His finger remained under her chin as he kissed the back of her other hand. As he did so his thumb brushed her chin in a soft caress.

At this, Winter found her words. She swayed backwards a fraction, moving only enough so his fingers lost contact with her jaw.

"Until tomorrow then, my Lord," she said, smiling decisively and putting an end to their interview.

Her firm refusal only seemed to amuse him. "Until tomorrow, Lady."

She had stood and fumed silently at Boromir's retreating back.

"Do you need anything else, milady?" Badhor inquired, after he had shown the man out.

"No, Badhor," Winter sighed wearily. "I just want to finish this."

Badhor had the grace to retire silently.

Perhaps the most galling thing about Boromir son of Denethor was his propensity to spark a rollercoaster of emotions in her. Winter scowled as she sat back at her writing table. His broad assumptions and bold manners left her angry. Moments later, his teasing look would fade to something more like tenderness, and she'd find herself as helpless as a boned fish.

 _You're just not in control enough! Why do you let him do this to you?_

 _Because if I respond in any other fashion, I lose our 'oh I'm a boring little girl, as interesting as Anastasia Steele' kinda vibe. Every time I snap at him, it just attracts him further._

 _Oh, right, as if your school girl blushes weren't doing that already!_

Winter shook her head moodily. Her letter to Lachie was not a soothing sight; to her chagrin, it took only two or three days for post to pass between Minas Tirith and Rivendell using the portals. Lachie took every opportunity to write, so Winter found herself labouring over these responses at least twice a week. James' mail came even more frequently, but it was far easier to compose those breezy notes.

 _Ah well. Five more days till Tuilere._

 _Yeah, five more days to spend with Boromir, and then Tuilere with him also. Woop-de-doo._

Winter replaced the quill on the desk, abandoning her writing endeavour. She propped her elbows on the desk, hands cupping her chin where Boromir had brushed her face minutes before.

 _This whole thing's awfully unlucky. Think, you could've been fangirling over Boromir from a distance. Instead you're having to brush him away, getting the full brunt of his overbearing ways… Bloody flirt._

At this, Winter could not help but laugh. The chuckle bubbled up from within her, withered and wry and sardonic.

"Ugh," she muttered to herself, brushing away a stray tear of mirth. "Well, at least after Tuilere I can go out in company and meet other people, and dilute Boromir a little." She sighed. "Perhaps it's time to get buddy-buddy with Ioreth."

* * *

 _17_ _th_ _March, 3007_

The days leading up to Tuilere were remarkably busy in the Houses of Healing. A contingent of soldiers from Osgiliath and Ithilien had limped back on brief leave before the spring festival, bringing with them an odd assortment of injuries.

Winter had made good on her word to spend more time at the Houses. Three weeks' work in the garb of a Healer had strengthened her confidence and capabilities. She knew the peculiar quirks of Ioreth and half a dozen other senior Healers. Her knowledge of herbs and remedies had grown exponentially, spurred by genuine interest in this peculiar world. She'd won over the Warden with a smile and quick thinking; she'd alienated Gaerel even further in that same moment.

 _Ah well. If you don't learn to accept that some people will hate you, you won't get far in the world,_ Winter decided, with philosophic resignation.

Thus, with a sudden influx of patients, Winter found herself amply occupied. She had started in the Houses early that morning, and would not be dismissed until the sixth hour after noon.

 _Far too late for Boromir to come calling by that time,_ came the smug thought.

 _True. But since when did we start calling six o'clock the "sixth hour after noon"?_

Winter moved away from her workstation to rinse her hands, dismissing the thought as easily as the herbs were washed from her fingers.

All morning, she had laboured in one of the wards, seeing to the comfort of the children who called the Houses home that day. She was expected to return there presently, once she had finished replenishing her Healer's kit. Still, the brief respite was welcome. She'd been working in one of the rooms for an hour, double-checking stores and preparing herself for the afternoon shift.

"Lady Faenil."

Flicking her hands free of droplets, Winter turned to greet the owner of the voice. It was Silef, a wide-eyed noblewoman from Andrast who reminded Winter of Zooey Deschanel. Silef had come to the Houses some months before Winter. She was taller than the Australian girl, very slender, and stunningly pretty. Not a few of the other Healers loitering in the room turned to look as Silef approached Lady Faenil.

"Lady Silef," Winter replied, smiling slightly.

The younger woman's mouth tilted in the barest hint of pleasure. "Where are you bound this afternoon, Lady Faenil?"

"To the eastern wing, attending to the younglings."

"Oh." Silef looked rather disappointed. "I am bound elsewhere." She glanced down, smoothing her face of emotion as she did so.

Winter still struggled to imitate the unreadable expression of Gondorian women. Silef was sensitive and sweet, but still managed to school her countenance to stillness. Nevertheless, she did not wear a hard mask like Gaerel did. Her calm was merely a soothing of the emotions she felt, not a guise for anger or annoyance. At the very least, Winter felt she could make a reasonable guess as to Silef's feelings. The girl seemed eager for companionship. They were the only two ladies of similar station in the Houses, and had consequently spent a fair portion of time together. Winter could not deny she was glad to form an acquaintance with another woman. Perhaps, in time, they might be friends.

This thought warmed her, even more so as Silef glanced back upward.

"I hope you are attending Tuilere, Lady Faenil," the other woman proffered, softly. Her hands fiddled with the soft grey of her gown. The demure shyness only added to her allure. It was no surprise that she was considered a favourite among Minas Tirith's young lords.

"Certainly I am," smiled Winter in response. "I shall count upon your company at the Wreathweaving, Lady Silef."

The girl blushed a becoming rose colour.

"I should be delighted to count you one of my companions," she managed, in spite of her obvious embarrassment. She hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug. "I have few acquaintances in Minas Tirith, my lady."

"As do I. We must take comfort in one another."

This drew a shy smile from Lady Silef.

"I hope so. Yet now I must depart, or brave Healer Ioreth's wrath." She quirked her lip in what could only be interpreted as wryness. Winter welcomed the display of humour.

"Yes, we should not risk that," the latter replied, lightly. "I had best be going myself."

Silef nodded, fingers tangled in her skirt once more. With another smile, she glided to another part of the work room. The eyes of the other Healers followed her again as she did so. Some faces wore envy, and others admiration. Winter did not begrudge Silef her devotees. The girl was as elegantly and seemly as a rose.

As Winter finished gathering her things, she smiled to herself. Tuilere, now only three days away, had loomed over her rather menacingly. The prospect of a day spent in Boromir's company was not one to be anticipated, for she hated the dance that he led her on.

 _Much better when he was on the page of a book, and no more than that!_

The prospect of Silef's company to temper the Captain-General was delightful. Winter could not be faulted for turning to a fellow noblewoman as a confidante, even in Lord Boromir's presence.

 _And, with any luck, Boromir's eye will be caught by our lovely Lady Silef,_ Winter mused smugly. She slung her bag over her grey-clad shoulder and moved towards the door. _That would be a wonderful way to be rid of him. And, really, he and Silef would make a charming couple, even if Boromir's not really supposed to be married._

 _Not my problem,_ her other side replied breezily.

As she left the work room, Winter nodded deferentially to several passing Healers. The older women returned the gesture. It pleased her, knowing that her work was accepted by the real Healers of Minas Tirith. Only Gaerel seemed to resent her, and Winter was happily reconciled to the fact.

She moved confidently along the corridors and down several stairwells. The children's wing was not difficult to find, and tended to have a steady supply of inpatients. There were always little ones brought in by mothers to be healed, and some that required more constant care. The Warden was liberal with his remedies, and those who could not afford the Healers' attentions were not forced to pay.

Winter took a steadying breath as she neared the ward. She had always adored children, particularly babies. The Houses of Healing had their fair share of little ones, and Winter had eagerly volunteered to look after them. Kids, she'd reasoned, would be the same on this side of the portal as the other. That much was true. What she hadn't been prepared for was the difficulty of soothing tiny people without the advantages of modern medicines.

She pushed open the door resolutely. Inside, she was met with the low hubbub of childish voices.

Winter pressed a pleasant expression to her countenance. Darkhaired mites met her gaze with wide eyes. Many stares were glassy with pain or the drugs that countered the former. At some beds, devoted mothers sat, cradling their offspring with protective arms and wary looks. For the most part, however, the little creatures fended for themselves. The ward was two-thirds comprised of beds, whilst the last section hosted cribs. Winter headed for the latter end, drawn by the bright grey eyes of the babies.

"Ah! Healer Faenil," chirruped the matronly Healer woman who was also in residence on the ward. "Good. Would you change the wrappings on the child in the fifth cradle?" She was holding a child herself, patting its back to soothe its low sobs. Her sun-spotted hands moved in practiced motions over the child's little body.

Winter did not pause to ask how the older woman knew her name, but merely nodded. "Yes, Healer."

 _Ah, yes. Exactly what we moved to Middle-earth to achieve. Changing nappies._

 _Better than dealing with the gory wounds that come in from the millers and farmers. Mangled fingers and crushed legs are worse than nappies, methinks._

Unable to argue with that logic, she deposited her kit and rolled up her sleeves as she approached the fifth cradle. The child within was lying on its back, gurgling happily with its hands in its mouth. Drool cascaded across its fingers, and as Winter approached it gave a happy chirrup. When she made to pick it up, however, it squawked indignantly.

"Oh! Ya little blighter," she murmured, low. "C'mon, ya scallywag. You're right as rain." Something about the monotonous Aussie phrase seemed to capture the child, for it quietened as Winter moved to a changing table. She continued to mutter Australian nonsense, low enough that the other Healer could not hear. She had always been met with success when she'd tried such techniques on the children, for the unusual Aussie accent caught their attention. In a moment, Winter had deposited the baby upon a change table and begun to unwrap—ah, it was a him.

The afternoon progressed in this fashion. The eastern ward fell into shadow as the sun concluded its daytime journey. Several new Healers were just beginning to trickle in for the evening shift when Winter heard her name.

She turned to the entrance to the ward.

 _Second Captain Rostor._

Winter's stomach flipped. He'd caught sight of her, and been directed to the infant ward by another Healer. Meeting him again was unsettling. Her jaw tightened as she recalled how close she'd come to betraying herself the day she'd treated him. In retrospect, she realized how many toes she must have trampled in that act. Not only had she done something potentially dangerous, but gambled the reputation of the Healers in doing so. Had things gone amiss, it could have spelt disaster for more than herself or the Arda Exchange Program. This chilling realisation mingled with pride as she surveyed his movements; she could scarcely tell which arm had been dislocated, and he moved without any hesitance. His face was still hard and unreadable, but pain no longer lanced his eyes.

"Lady Faenil," he said, a little gruffly.

"Second Captain," she replied. He bowed and she responded with a slight curtsey.

"I hope I do not disturb you, my lady," he continued, glancing around with the air of a man who despises hospitals. He eyed one of the nearby Healers with distrust. Then his gaze moved to one of the babies, and his expression softened.

"Nay, Captain; I am all but finished. Are you well, sir?"

Rostor bobbed his head. "Indeed, my lady. That is the purpose of my visit; I wished to convey my thanks. I have been forced to rest by Captain-General Boromir this half-score of days. I—little did I enjoy it, yet it was necessary. Your remedy was swift and effective. After Tuilere, I am to return to Osgiliath." He punctuated this with much pausing and throat-clearing, evidently uncomfortable.

Winter gave a half-smile.

 _Still regret being bold and helping him? Goodness knows what they could've done to him if one of these medieval healers had mistreated it._

 _…_ _and this is why we hide in the children's ward, avoiding the serious injuries._

 _Huh._

"I am glad to hear you are somewhat recovered, sir," Winter said warmly. "Though I would caution you to treat your arm with care for some weeks yet. Had I my way, it would still be bound at your side."

Rostor's face betrayed the hint of a smile, as if to say, _Good luck with that._

"Come; I return to the entrance to the Houses. Will you accompany me?" Winter suggested, flipping her long braid over her shoulder. Rostor gave a gruff nod, and she hurried to gather her last things. After a quick word with the supervising Healer, who gave her an approving look, Winter ambled back towards the central part of the Houses in Rostor's company. As they left the children's ward, his eyes lingered pityingly on the small residents.

"So you are to spend Tuilere in Minas Tirith, Second Captain Rostor?"

"Aye, my lady."

Winter glanced surreptitiously to the side as they ambled along the corridor. "With family, I hope, sir?"

Rostor gave the broadest smile Winter had yet seen. "Aye. My wife—and son."

Winter couldn't help return his expression. He was a well-built man, mid-thirties and in the prime of his life. He was not as handsome as Lachie… or Boromir— _stop it—_ but there was a wholesomeness about him which Winter liked.

 _Not to mention it's hard not to be warmed by that gruff yet loving fatherly figure._

 _And explains why he seemed so sorry for all the babies in the hospital._

"I am very glad."

He seemed embarrassed by that remark, bowing his head and averting his eyes. As they neared the Healers' quarters, Winter paused.

"Thank you for your company, Second Captain. I wish you well at Tuilere, and hope that I shall not see you again—at least," she amended, with an unrestrainable grin, "not when you have come for healing."

Rostor returned her civilities in a raspy voice and left her side. Winter watched him go with warm eyes. He moved straight and tall, no longer crippled by his shoulder. He was evidently a proud man, and fiercely protective. Her journey to Arda had been a complicated one. There was Lachie, who she undeniably cared for, and Boromir, who she undoubtedly did not. She was made to muddle along with her charade toward the Steward's son, furious with herself for becoming entangled in that mess and fervently wishing it would go away. She longed for an anonymous existence, characterised only by awe at Middle-earth's terrain and her work in the Houses. No lie to live, boring Boromir with listlessness and ill humour.

And then there was Rostor.

Somehow, seeing the man transition from pain to wholeness settled something within her. Oh, she'd blundered. She'd wrought herself a frustrating situation with Boromir. But there was one thing she'd done right, even when it had looked hopelessly stupid.

 _My purpose here—that's it,_ she thought, at Rostor's retreating back. _One man. One man is whole and well and spending the spring festival with his family before he returns to the front. His arm will work, and he will keep defending these walls. I'm here, feeling slightly run down because I'm having to make a book character I admire dislike me. He's out there, saving the world._

 _And you fixed his arm._

 _Yeah. I did. If that's all the good I manage here… then that's enough._

It was nearly impossible to wipe the smile from Winter's face as she went to gather her cloak and prepared to head home.

Something had gone right. The thought of it lent her renewed strength, and it was not the bitter, defensive strength she had drawn upon in previous days. It blossomed from her sense of satisfaction in seeing Rostor move freely. Realising the impact she could make softened her. Even the sting from her meeting with Mistress Glavorlien was diminished. The thought of rumours concerning Lord Boromir and Lady Faenil flitted away, mindless as autumn leaves.

 _And you know what?_ came the ponderous thought.

 _What?_

 _Keeping your guard up with Boromir's not just about preserving your own reputation. You screw that up, you lose your chance to help people like Rostor._

 _And my chance to smuggle out as many artefacts of Minas Tirith to the real world._

 _…_ _that too._

Winter couldn't argue with that.

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE**

 **So we're getting towards the more exciting aspects of Winter's journey. I think she's beginning to settle in now, but as Tuilere/the Spring Festival nears in Minas Tirith, things do begin to get more interesting. Some things are going to erupt and toss out the plot.**

 **I love getting your reviews so please leave one! Let me know what you think of Winter's character, the plot so far, and how I've portrayed other characters in the story.**

 **Thanks for all your faithful reading!**

 **\- Finwe.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13 - A small rebellion & a spring festival**

* * *

 _19_ _th_ _March, 3007_

Letters had become an established part of Winter's routine. The romantic part of her soul rejoiced at receiving the parchment envelopes; the practical part revelled at having to return these messages with a scratchy quill and ink. Nevertheless, she was not sorry to come home from the Houses late one afternoon to a pile of post left by Aeglossel. Best of all was the sight of a cloth-wrapped parcel contained therein. Winter immediately seized upon it and the accompanying note.

 _The Magnificent Lady Faenil; so Beautiful and Witty,_ in James' hand.

Chuckling, Winter gathered up the parcel and her other notes and settled within an armchair.

"Lady Faenil?"

Aeglossel's musical voice rang softly across the room. Winter turned awkwardly in her chair to catch sight of her bedroom door.

"Yes, Aeglossel?"

The young maid entered the room properly. She walked with her usual ballerina-grace, pausing where Winter could look at her without straining her neck.

"Shall I draw water for your bath, milady?"

Glancing at the pile of mail, Winter paused. Dinner was not for some hours yet.

 _I'd still have time…_

"No thank you, not yet. I'll ring the bell when I need you."

Aeglossel curtseyed. "As you wish, milady."

She glided back out in a gentle rustling of skirts.

 _A more beautiful girl I've hardly ever seen,_ Winter thought. She was more than a little envious of Aeglossel's natural grace; she was easily as pretty as the much sought-after Lady Silef in the Houses. The only distinguishing feature between the two women was Aeglossel's common birth. Not for the first time, Winter wondered at this feudal world, where a bright, charming woman like her maid could be hamstrung simply because she was a commoner.

 _There's one thing I won't miss when I leave in a year._

 _Indeed; nor the ways of some men,_ groused her other half.

Sighing, Winter began to tear open the letter from James. Tuilere was tomorrow. The thought had weighed heavily upon her mind all day. She'd thrown herself headlong into work in the Houses, even daring to tend the soldiers when her work with the children had run dry. She'd scurried about, eagerly seeking new tasks to keep the spring festival from her mind. She was excited to see the Gondorian festival, and observe their customs first-hand.

The sentiment didn't extend to her time with Boromir.

 _Nothing to do about it now,_ came the sage advice. _Read your letter, open your present. James is a soothing human._

 _Funny; never would have used the adjective "soothing" while I spent time with the man. But perhaps you're right._

She withdrew the letter from its envelope and unfolded the pages.

* * *

 _Dear Girl of Frost and Snow,_

 _This is only a short letter, sorry! Afraid I don't have much time. I've put far too much effort into the accompanying gift (I hope you haven't already opened it, you mercenary!)_

 _I'll admit to you, I've been fairly homesick here in Dale. Been keeping myself busy, but it's pretty hard not to miss home and family. So what I've been doing is going for walks. The long of short of it is this… I found something, a little trinket, that I thought you would find hilarious. It is a token accidentally left behind (I presume), obviously by an Exchange Program member like ourselves. It made me think of you._

 _Don't protest Wintry Day, I know you too well, even though we only met a couple of months ago. You always have this rebellious glint in your eye (it's true!) and I thought this kind of thing'd be up your alley. And it sounds like you need_ _something_ _rebellious to keep you from exploding. This whole get-rid-of-Boromir act sounds way too well-behaved and obedient for you. Anyway, I hope it helps. Use it to laugh silently when you're frustrated. You're outwitting them all._

 _Enclosed in the parcel is a be-yoo-tiful leather book I have put together for you, lovingly decorated with some of my notes on Dale and Erebor plus some of my drawings. I'd hoped you'd add some of your own information on Minas Tirith, maybe on the Spring Festival? I thought you could send it on to Lachie afterwards, and we'll each add bits of information as we please._

 _However, if you would look down the spine of said book, you will find your little true present._

 _Keep me updated with the news on our beloved son of Denethor. I live for the goss, and you know it._

 _James._

 _Ps. All the blame goes on you if they find you with this contraband._

* * *

As usual, Winter was grinning as she read James' note. So much of the young man's personality was imprinted upon the page. She missed their uncomplicated, brotherly friendship keenly.

Setting the note aside, she grasped the parcel and unwound the fastening string. Inside was a leather-bound journal, as lovely as James had described. The pages were good-quality paper, and a sizeable section had been filled by his notes, observations, drawings and other oddments. He'd even glued several cuttings in. Winter flicked through idly, pleased to see that a Dain Ironfoot caricature had made it into the book.

Closing the pages, she turned it upright and inspected the spine. It was a thick journal, with a wad of pages about an inch and a half wide. The leather spine of the book curved out from the page binding slightly, leaving a small space between the two. Squinting, Winter could see another tiny cloth-wrapped bundle tucked down into the space. She pressed her pointer and middle finger into the gap, trying to grasp the item between them. After a few minutes of struggling she managed it, and pulled the tiny gift out of its clever hiding space.

Seconds later the scrap of fabric was unwound.

Winter was left holding the One Ring.

She burst into a fit of laughter. By the time she'd finished laughing, her stomach ached from the unexpected exertion. In her hands sat a very cheap copy of the One Ring. The chain it hung from was better quality, with a foreign clasp Winter assumed had come from a craftsman in Dale. The Ring, however, was unquestionably one of those cheap mass-produced copies sold at a pittance on eBay. The Tengwar script was done badly in black paint, and the cheap metal was slightly scratched.

Still, it tickled her fancy.

 _Well done, James!_

She marvelled that he'd thought to conceal it so cleverly. The Exchange Program staff didn't read and censor letters, though members were encouraged to burn their correspondence. Parcels were another matter entirely. Anything questionable was confiscated. The Ring would definitely have been removed.

 _But of course, they'd never take such a lovely book! There's nothing to compromise the program; it's merely a series of observations about Dale and Erebor. Goodness Jimmy, you're a sly one._

Winter held up the Ring by its chain, resisting the urge to howl with laughter once more. The person who had lost the item had done well to smuggle it into Arda. What's more, Winter knew they probably would have endured a great deal of anguish at its loss.

 _They're lucky James found it, and not some superstitious Lakeman._

She chuckled again. It was hard not to, cradling the fragment of rebellion James had sent her. How had he known? Perhaps her exasperation with the Boromir situation had leaked through her letters more than Winter had realised. She could not express the thankfulness she felt at her friend's gift. She could not wear it to the Tuilere ball, for her dress was so low-cut that it would be seen. She could, however, fasten it beneath her gown for the daytime ceremonies.

For an instant, she was assaulted with thoughts of her mother's disapproval. What would Ada say, to this petty, flaunting act?

Winter shoved that thought aside with contempt. She was well aware that most of her behaviour lately would be decidedly disappointing to Ada Newhall. Even Túiel did not blame Winter for the initial Boromir fiasco, but her mother certainly would. _You could do better, Winter_. The unrelenting thought of her mother's disdain had hardened her in that respect. Whatever she did, she would be silently reproached; at the least, she could strengthen herself with the amusement she found in carrying the Ring with her. If she was tranquil and able to help men like Rostor in the Houses, all the better. And, by the end of this Middle-earth experience, she hoped fervently that she might achieve an end which would not be so distasteful to Ada.

 _The end justifies the means, I guess._

That settled, Winter slipped the chain over her head. Tuilere did not seem quite so daunting, with laughter fresh upon her lips and her slice of mutiny in one hand. All she had to do was maintain the same façade long enough that Boromir got bored.

 _Carrying his future downfall about your neck, eh?_

 _Yup. And if he's an insolent fool again tomorrow, I'll take it off and use it to strangle him._

* * *

 _20_ _th_ _March, 3007_

"Will you not allow Badhor to summon a litter?"

Winter's eyes moved between companion and _byrath_. As usual, Badhor's countenance did not betray what we thought.

"Badhor?"

The man gave the barest shrug.

"No opinion, as usual," griped Túiel, testily. She turned back to Winter. "A litter will reinforce your status, milady; reputation! Shall you toss it all aside in a fit of pique?"

"No," Winter refuted, calmly. "But I see no reason to summon four men to carry me up two levels to the Citadel on such a warm day. It is unnecessary."

"It is proper," insisted Túiel.

"Hardly. Do you mean to tell me that no women of Gondor ever favour the use of their own two feet?"

The trio stood within the dining room. It was early, not yet mid-morning, but it promised to be a golden day for the celebration of Tuilere. They stood in a kind of lopsided triangle, with Winter and Badhor standing closer whilst Túiel assailed them from a third point.

 _How much has changed,_ Winter mused, as she met Túiel's grey eyes with a resolute stare.

Indeed, the dynamic of the three in the room had altered substantially over the previous few weeks. At first, Winter had submitted to the wishes of her companion and _byrath_ in almost every matter, trusting to their judgement. The graciousness of her submission had varied greatly; she would be the first to admit she had resisted much of Túiel's well-meant correction. Today she was in no mood for compromise.

Reading her look, Túiel was unable to suppress a light laugh. It was a pleasant sound, and Winter wished her companion would laugh more often. It shone through her stern demeanour like sunlight on stained glass. Beautiful.

"Ah, Lady Faenil! Should I reprimand you for playing your part so well? Had I a looking glass, I would show you how you appear; never has a woman of your world seemed quite so proud and queenly. Oh, do not smile so broad! You are all emotion, milady. Forgive me; as much as I would urge you to call for a litter, it would be improper to countermand the instructions of my lady." Túiel had the good humour to smile. "Still," she added, gesturing at Aeglossel, who had just entered the room, "if your maidservant bruises your flowers for the Wreathweaving in the hubbub, you shall bear the consequences."

Grinning still, Winter glanced to look at Badhor. His countenance was pleased.

"And you! To look so smug," scolded Túiel, eyes bright.

"It is not the first time I have witnessed her take charge, as her role befits," Badhor stated simply. "You have learned well, Lady Faenil."

Winter gave an exaggerated bow, flourishing her skirt with one hand for effect. "Thank you, kind sir."

"At least restrain yourself from displays of that kind, at the Wreathweaving," chided Túiel. "Walking is one thing. Dancing about like a loose woman is quite another. Lady Faenil may be eccentric, but she must not be improper."

Winter snorted. "A loose woman? I?"

Badhor smiled at her antics. "Regardless, we must depart. I shall summon your escort, and meet you in the entrance hall. Come, Aeglossel; you must walk between Lady Faenil's guards to best manage the flowers."

Shaking her head, Túiel moved to the table where both of their wraps lay. It was a prodigiously lovely day, erasing the need for full cloaks on their walk to the Citadel. Winter's daytime dress, a floaty cream embroidered with dainty pink and green flowers for Tuilere, was warm enough without additional layers. Instead, she would wear a gauzy cream scarf which covered her hair and looped about her neck and shoulders. Túiel positioned this with deft fingers, before donning her own scarf. Winter's companion wore a simple gown of soft green instead of the usual Oxford blue of Lord Lossemen's servants.

"You look very nice, Túiel," remarked Winter, truthfully. The mossy colour suited her companion well, contrasting with her pitch-black hair and drawing green from grey eyes.

Túiel shifted in acute discomfort and grunted in what might have been thanks. She teetered on the brink of a lecture, and then subsided, her face flushed pale pink. Winter grinned into her headscarf, equally glad to have both avoided a lecture and embarrassed her companion with compliments. Túiel was hard to rattle.

"Come, then; if you insist on walking, we'd best be off," the older woman managed, recapturing her usual briskness. She strode resolutely for the door, heedless of whether Winter followed.

The latter did, realising the truth of the statement. The two ladies exited Lord Lossemen's townhouse, having collected Badhor, Aeglossel and several guards to accompany them. Neither Sam nor Will were present, to Winter's chagrin. Still, Aeglossel's delight in the day was entertainment enough. The maid held a huge armful of carnations for Lady Faenil to contribute to the Wreathweaving. She flittered between concern for her task and rapture in the day.

The party moved doggedly up Minas Tirith's main thoroughfare. To Winter, it was more like dancing than walking. The streets were so clogged with people that her escort was jostled about her. It was as if Tuilere gave the entire city chance to become utterly mad. Men and women, in various degrees of finery, loitered about the streets in a dozen different poses. Here was one man, on bended knee before a woman, whilst she glanced about in dread lest anyone frown upon her beloved's display; there was another couple, walking arm in arm with beatified smiles and matching wreaths upon their heads; there again was a wretched-looking girl who was desperately trying to reconcile the two young men before her, whilst the latter eyed one another distrustfully.

 _Beautiful. Chaos._

Winter lost herself in observation. Some whom she saw were serving men and women, clad simply, whilst others were bedecked in metres of fabric. Where normally there trod only aristocrats and their escorts, now there were folk of every sort. Maids and errand-boys from within noble houses had turned out upon the streets. Everyone was delightfully careless. Flowers were tossed about with cheerful disregard for their value; each noble house was strung with some form of spring adornment. Most remarkable, however, were the colours. Lighter, delicate fabrics were more common among Minas Tirith's ladies; however, most noblewomen dressed primarily in darker, richer hues. The serving folk knew nothing else; the liveries they wore were dark for the sake of practicality, generally in blues or greys.

 _It seems that Tuilere tosses practicality to the wind,_ Winter marvelled, noting what appeared to be a kitchen-maid in a soft pink. Even the lower classes donned the colours of buds and blossoms for Tuilere, and the sight was undeniably lovely. Rather like milling about in a garden of roses, as opposed to among jewels and darkness. Winter found she liked the former a great deal more, and drank in the sight of Minas Tirith turned out in their pale finery. More than once Túiel had to grab her firmly by the arm and tug her along behind.

"Have you left your wits behind, Lady Faenil?" sighed the woman.

Winter met her companion's gaze with sparkling eyes, and saw that Túiel's countenance lacked any real reproachfulness.

"Nay, Túiel. But it _is_ beautiful, isn't it?"

Her companion gave a soft smile, and plunged onward. As they moved forward, Winter heard her mutter something distinctly like, "And now you see why I suggested a litter!"

She was unable to feel any regret for her desire to travel on foot. The spirit of Tuilere seeped into Winter's bones. Everything was fresh and new and lovely; the sky was clear and pale, the day promised the warmth of a gentle caress, and James' gift hung inside her dress between her breasts. Winter could feel the gold ring against her skin, and the thought of it added to the bubble of joy within her. The happy madness of the day took her. What did she care for Boromir, anyhow?

 _I'm in Minas Tirith! And it's Tuilere! Today I shall be presented, and join in the Wreathweaving. Lord Boromir shan't spoil a thing._

With this resolution in mind, Winter focused her energies on following Túiel and Badhor towards the Citadel. They passed the Houses, weaving upwards to the seventh level of Minas Tirith.

* * *

Boromir strode briskly across the room. He caught a fleeting glance of himself as he passed the looking glass, and immediately paused to survey his appearance. He brushed a stray piece of fluff from his shoulder, smoothed his hair and inspected his beard from all angles.

 _Faramir was right. Short is better._

Grinning inwardly, Boromir continued along the corridor. His long strides ate up the marble floor as he breezed along towards the King's Hall. He gave a cursory nod to several minor noblemen in passing.

 _A wonder they hover in the hallways, rather than perusing the ladies gathering in the courtroom,_ he mused, recalling well the flocks of pretty women who filled the court each spring at Tuilere. They were all pink cheeks and flying skirts and cloying perfume— _a little much, I suppose, and I do not blame them for drawing aside. Still… not all of the Ladies of Gondor are so…_

He struggled in vain for a word, and eventually gave it up for lost. Faramir was better with words. Boromir thought wistfully of the younger brother, caught amidst the garrison in Osgiliath. His kind, high-browed face would stare wistfully out across the Anduin, longing to be caught anywhere but the half-ruined city. Ah, how that little brother would be missing his company— _how I miss his_. The separation never sat well with either brother. Boromir could scarcely recall any stretches in their youth during which he and Faramir had been separated. He much preferred to have kin within reach of his arm. Faramir might be Second Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, hardy and swift of judgement, but Boromir knew he harboured no love of the constant skirmishes between Gondor and their foes. Faramir thrived in the quiet of the land - in peace.

 _And would probably much rather be here for Tuilere than I_ , he groused internally. _At least, were he here, he should be happy—and in that end, I should also be so, taking pleasure from his enjoyment._

 _You do not merely wish him here as a means of amusing yourself?_

Boromir would have scoffed aloud at such a thought, were he not passing a cluster of maidservants with harried expressions.

 _Nay indeed_ , came his steadfast reply, for Boromir was fiercely protective of Faramir, and would willingly have turned aside his own enjoyment for the sake of his brother.

 _Instead, I must endure the day as best I can, and take some amusement in accompanying Lady Faenil. If Faramir steels himself so nobly to do the wishes of our Father, so must I._

He nodded to himself. Besides, a day spent in Lady Faenil's company was hardly unpleasant. She was a different creature altogether to the ladies he had known previously. From her first outburst in the Houses of Healing, he had recognised her as peculiar. Lately she had been as demure and polished as any other woman, yet he knew this was merely a façade. There was light and life in the flame-headed girl, something fresh from Gondor's provinces which Boromir, frankly, liked. He harboured no doubts she could be just as devious as the sly vixens of the court, but it did not seem her natural way. Hers was a sharp presence. Propriety reined her in, just as responsibility did the same to Boromir. He would enjoy trying to provoke her today, even though baiting a lady was a poor substitute for Faramir's camaraderie. Still, he had time to spend as he chose whilst Denethor kept him cooped up in Minas Tirith. Why should he not seek out other company, when Faramir's was denied him?

As he concluded this thought, Boromir swept around a corner and arrived at the entrance to the King's Hall. A quartet of guards nodded as he strode boldly into the room. He flicked a stray piece of hair out of his way as he entered at the head of the room, near the lower black throne of the Steward. Aside from his father, the room was empty, the main doors still closed to other visitors.

Denethor sat upon the gilded chair with the same languid grace as his sons possessed. He was a very tall man, with raven hair turned iron grey. His steely eyes were piercing beneath heavy brows, grown hard and cold over the last two decades. Seeing Boromir approach, he rose from his chair and reached to grip his eldest son's forearm.

"Father," the latter intoned, nodding respectfully.

"Come, Boromir," Denethor replied, turning back towards the throne. Despite his nearly-80 years, his shoulders were not bent by time.

"What do you need, Father?"

Denethor gave a low chuckle as he reseated himself. "I need nothing of you. Your duty is what calls you, and urges you stand at my right hand. Today is not for us, but for the people of Gondor. You shall do as custom requires of the Steward-prince, honouring our guests as the lords and ladies of the court are presented to us."

"Duty," replied Boromir, a trifle shortly. "I would disagree, Father; the only call of duty I feel is to return to my brother's side, to defend the people of Minas Tirith by the strength of my arm. What good do I do here, nodding to noblewomen?"

Denethor's face hardened. "That duty is not for the Captain of the White Tower, my firstborn. That is a duty reserved for a _Second Captain_ of the Rangers of Ithilien," he almost sneered.

"No," retorted Boromir, "perhaps not. But it _is_ the duty of the Captain-General of Gondor. I am not merely the holder of some honorific title, given me only because I am the Steward-prince. I shall not lay idle; have I not shown my merit, in earning the title of Captain-General? For I count this of far greater worth than any other, as I have earned it myself. And," he finished, brusquely, "Faramir commands nigh on half of the Company of the Rangers of Ithilien; Tinnuon cedes him greater power as he ages, and Faramir has proved himself more than worthy of it. Ere long he shall be a full Captain."

The Steward's eyes drifted away from Boromir's as the latter's tirade trickled to a halt. His face creased in a bitter smile.

"That does not concern me. Come, now; shall I implore you once more to aid me in the service of our people— _your_ people?"

Gritting his teeth in resignation, Boromir moved to stand beside the Steward's throne. His father's dismissal of Faramir's merits grated upon his existing reluctance to participate in the day. Nevertheless, he knew better than to persist—nor was he given an opportunity, for Denethor commanded the guards open the doors, and Tuilere began.

 _For you, little brother._

* * *

"Gather yourself, child," muttered Túiel, very low.

"Did I do all right?" Winter replied, pretending to readjust her gauzy scarf.

"Very well. Composed, demure; yes."

Winter gave an audible sigh of relief.

 _Well it's not like high school really prepares you for presentation at Denethor's Court, does it?_

 _…_ _does anything?_

She shook herself. Marching up the long King's Hall of Minas Tirith had been awe-inspiring. Hundreds of interested eyes had followed them as she had trailed along the marble floor in the company of two dozen other young noblemen and women. She'd been so taken by the hordes of people she hadn't had a second to admire the architecture. _Later_ , she promised herself.

At the head of the King's Hall she had been afforded her first glimpse of Denethor II son of Ecthelion, Ruling Steward of Gondor. He was an imposing man, huge even as he sat in his chair. His eyes were at once intense and yet absent, as if he believed himself lost in some kind of bewildering dream from which he could not escape.

 _Needless to say,_ came the droll thought, _it doesn't seem as if he improves much in the next ten years. Poor Faramir._

Boromir had also been present. He had stood at his father's right side, his countenance grave. He waited correctly, eyes following the proceedings with a valiant effort at attentiveness. Nevertheless, it was easy for Winter to see that the elder son of the Steward took no pleasure in the proceedings. As Lady Faenil was announced to Lord Denethor, Boromir had given the barest look of acknowledgement. Aside from that, he seemed utterly detached. The polite, political setting seemed at odds with his characteristic bluntness.

Winter couldn't blame him. The presentation had seemed to take a dreadfully long time, and she had been glad to escape back to Túiel and her small escort.

"To the Wreathweaving, child," chided her companion. "Come! Shall I direct you all day? This shall never do for a lady. What shall the city gossips report?"

Winter couldn't help a wry smile. The King's Hall was on the highest level of Minas Tirith. Next to this, in the very centre of the seventh level, was the Tower of Ecthelion. It stretched elegantly up to meet the sky, gleaming white in the warm spring sun. Before this tower was the Court of the Fountain and—most interesting to Winter—the withered form of the White Tree. As she followed the procession of ladies towards the gardens on the southern side of the Tower of Ecthelion, Winter was smitten by the significance of the tree. For an instant, it did not seem like a piece of flora, but the shrivelled form of a person. She had taken for granted that the Steward ruled here…

 _But they need their King. Eleven more years, little tree, and then you will be dug up and laid to rest, and a new tree will take your place. Aragorn will come, and the city will flourish again._

Unbidden, she recalled the images of the spectral houses on the lower levels, soulless and deserted without their inhabitants.

 _For goodness's sake, Aragorn, don't forget to dodge all those arrows, or I'm afraid Minas Tirith will crumble without you._

"Lady Faenil."

Winter nearly jumped, caught in her traitorous thoughts. Turning, she realised that Lady Silef had caught up to her amidst the steady trickle of noblewomen. The other woman wore floaty blue and seemed to radiate beauty.

"Ah! Lady Silef," Winter smiled, profoundly relieved to discover a friend who wasn't the heir to the throne of the Steward. Silef seemed equally pleased, her wide blue eyes emanating shy pleasure. The two women fell into step with one another, chatting lightly.

Several other ladies turned to glance at the pair as they moved within the throng of soft dresses.

 _Not sure if it's because I look like a fresh match among a whole lot of used ones, or because Silef hit the genetic jackpot. I wonder if she really_ is _Zooey Deschanel in another life…_

"What did you bring for the Wreathweaving, Lady Faenil?" came a soft enquiry.

Winter smiled. "Carnations, Lady Silef," she replied, gesturing behind her to where Aeglossel walked. To the maid's credit, the flowers were still largely intact. The large armful of pink and white flowers seemed to shout spring.

"They are beautiful," Silef smiled, nodding politely at Aeglossel and turning back to Winter.

"And you? What do you bring to the Wreathweaving?"

"Roses," came Silef's prompt response. "My mother's rose garden is famous; she brought them to Minas Tirith's Wreathweaving over two decades ago."

Winter's eyes fell on Silef's maidservant, who was gingerly clutching her burden. The roses put Lady Faenil's carnations to shame. They were utterly unspoiled, varying from fleshy pink to the daintiest red and white buds.

"I see why your mother's garden is well-regarded," Winter admitted, frankly. "They are lovely." _But my maidservant is prettier than yours, so we're even I guess._

"Thank you."

Feeling a little piqued by Silef's quiet pride but unable to be thoroughly angry, Winter admired the dresses of the other women in passing. It seemed an endless flock of ladies that moved towards the seventh-tier garden. Maidservants, prettily clad, were only distinguishable by the burdens of flowers they carried. Túiel also joined them, walking alongside Aeglossel. However, Badhor and Winter's escort of guards had slipped away to join the other serving men whilst the women wove flowers.

In fact, all the gentlemen had melted away, leaving the women to their work. Boromir, thankfully, had been too tied up with duty to catch Winter before she followed the other ladies to the garden. The lords would re-join them as the noonday meal approached.

"And now for the nicest part of the day," sighed Silef, happily. A true smile lit up her face— _dammit; no orthodonture or acne cream and she's still that pretty!_ —and she clasped Winter's hand in hers. "Let us go over here, where the other young women gather." Silef gestured at a cluster of other ladies Winter guessed were between about seventeen and twenty-five.

 _Woah no, not the sorority sist—_

Silef led Winter resolutely towards them. The latter exchanged a last-minute panicked glance with Túiel. For an instant, Winter thought her companion was about to laugh, and then she was plunged into a flurry of introductions. Silef might be shy, but her sweet disposition had won her many friends. Winter heard more names than she could rightly remember, before the wooden frame of the wreath was produced and chaos ensued.

 _And here I was thinking that university would be the end of group assignments…_

The wreath was an immense wooden circle, like a traditional Christmas wreath. Winter soon realised that the covering of the frame was a task assigned to the older, more important ladies of the court. The younger and less affluent women were tasked with providing the "tails" of the wreath; two long flower garlands which would be attached to the main structure. As such, the gathering of ladies separated into three companies. They scattered about the Citadel garden, taking up the chairs and stools provided by the Steward's household staff and setting to work. Each lady took her maid, who carried her offering of flowers for use by all. A businesslike young lady in Winter's cohort swiftly took stock of their supply, and work began. The knowledgeable wreathweavers wasted no time in teaching Winter and the other new ladies the art, and soon the wreath tail took shape.

Winter sat beside Lady Silef, dutifully looping the daisies she had been allotted. As she worked, her ears listened carefully for any snippets of rumour concerning herself and Lord Boromir. She weighed each word warily, and found that there was no mention of the Steward-prince. In fact, Lady Faenil—who, it appeared, was _not_ a wraith, but a living being—did not receive any attention at all. The talk was light and the camaraderie even as the spring madness took hold of even the most reserved Gondorian ladies. As the minutes ticked by and the talk remained frivolous, Winter relaxed. It was a profound relief to comprehend that, this morning at least, she wouldn't have to tread so cautiously. Much of her apprehension of Tuilere had been Boromir himself.

 _This is why they kick out the men for the Wreathweaving,_ Winter decided. _Much more fun for the women if there are no males to get in the way._

* * *

"Lady Faenil, might you reach over and tuck this peony stem behind—? Ah, thank you," smiled the unofficial leader of their weaving group. Eregnith was a pleasant woman, several years older than Winter. She had a shrewd yet kindly eye, wavy black hair and a greater sense of humour than the average Gondorian woman. She was married to a very respectable nobleman and, to Winter's delight, lived on the fifth tier not far from Lord Lossemen's house.

Winter smiled in reply to Eregnith's thanks and stood to her full height. Her back ached slightly from bending over the wreath tail. Still, as she rose and admired it, she felt rather proud of her contribution. Eregnith and several others were providing the finishing touches, neatening flower stems and ensuring that the mass of buds lay neatly.

"It is even more beautiful than last spring," remarked Silef, dusting off her hands and joining Winter in admiration of the wreath. "Though less hot. Shall we seek shade? Eregnith and the others will complete the wreath tail."

Winter nodded. The sun now hovered close to its zenith, drawing forth perspiration on her fair brow. She was grateful for the gauzy head scarf which protected her from sunburn, and gladly followed Silef to a nearby tree. Most of the other women had already sought similar resting places, only the most experienced weavers remaining to complete the task.

Winter unwound her scarf and draped it over one arm. She sighed happily as a whisking breeze tousled her hair and cooled her damp skin.

"That is better," she admitted, with a laugh.

"It is unseasonably hot today. Are you quite well in the heat, Lady Faenil?"

 _Honey, this is only like twenty-five. Warm to be out in the sun in a floor length dress, but not even close to home. Oh boy, I'd pay money to see you coping on a forty-degree Aussie day._

"Quite well," Winter reassured her. "Though I would be grateful for refreshment."

Silef remained unconvinced. "I could fetch you som—"

"Oh, don't even think of it! It must be nearly noon, and the servants will bring out food and drink. Let us just stand quietly and admire the others who toil out of the shade. I can't have you running about catering to my whims, simply because I am new!"

The other woman flushed pink at this, but smiled happily.

 _Bit of a doormat, isn't she?_

 _That wasn't very nice! At least she's made an effort to be friends._

 _Huh._

Shaking the thought, Winter turned to admiring the gardens. The Wreathweaving was drawing to a close, and the ladies were now mingling amid the trees and shrubs. The dainty colours and breezy fabrics blended perfectly with the springtime garden. Honey-soft sunlight danced upon the grass and fell flatly on the dark hair. Through the dappled hedge near the wall, Winter caught glimpses of the Pelennor, a rolling green mass far below. The additional two tiers of height made the view even lovelier than that from Lord Lossemen's home. Winter half-wondered whether nature herself had turned out a special display for the celebration of spring. The whole of the landscape seemed fit to bursting with life, ready to shout with joy and gladness simply in the excitement of the day. The trees were freshly budded, bees buzzed, and the flowers in the Wreath released their perfumes leaving the air thick with their scent.

Winter smiled and inhaled as deep as her lungs could manage. She held those scents within her, revelling in the freshness of the unspoiled countryside. The simplicity of the Wreathweaving, the easy friendship of the women in such a setting and the utter perfection of the day was like a soothing balm.

 _I may be here to do some good to these people, to learn and to teach… but by goodness, I don't think I've ever been anywhere so beautiful._

It was easy to become complacent, sitting in her lordly townhouse and seeing the sights of Middle-earth every day. Tuilere was like a crisp picture of her world—and a maddening influence for the rest of the city, it seemed. Winter hadn't seen such a lively group since the farewell ball at Caoloth.

"Here is your refreshment, Lady Faenil," put in Silef, nodding as a string of servants appeared from the Steward's House. Unlike the rest of the city, Denethor's staff still wore the customary black. The dark shade stood out jarringly amongst the pale garments of the rest of the party.

Winter pressed her lips together, profoundly sympathetic for those who were forced to toil in black whilst their counterparts donned pink and yellow and green. The servants did not appear downcast, however. They too carried the joyous expressions of Tuilere as merrily as they carried the platters of food. Within moments, all the ladies from the garden had gravitated towards the long trestle tables.

Winter and Silef ambled over with the rest, securing themselves goblets and a collection of tiny pastries. After the women drew back from the tables a little, the menfolk appeared.

"Shall we claim that bench over yonder, Lady Silef? I would be glad to sit properly, and not on a camp-stool," Winter suggested immediately, not even pausing to search the crowd for Boromir's tall head. _Too hard to find him anyway, it's like playing "Where's Wally?" but harder._

"Certainly," acquiesced Silef, noting the wooden bench beneath a blossoming tree.

If Winter led the way across the lawn faster than necessary, she would not have admitted it. Moments after the two ladies seated themselves, Aeglossel and Silef's maid appeared, dutifully taking up their positions behind their mistresses' chairs.

"What now, Lady Silef?" Winter asked, taking a sip of water and sighing happily.

"Now?" replied her friend, with an arch smile. "Now the day _really_ begins."

* * *

 **REVIEWS**

 **katnor: I would agree that Boromir does need to be taken down a notch or two... but do you really think it is likely to happen? ;)**

 **Lady Silverfrost: Thank you for your compliments! I think Winter is not, by nature, a super haughty person. She's sarcastic and somewhat intolerant, but I don't think the cool and noble lady vibe fits her super well. So, yes, she tried to be all correct with Glavorlien... and, as you say, the demeanour completely falls away. xD**

 **chisscientist: I like to think he's a bit up himself, yeah. Nice, valiant, kind, courageous... and very aware of the fact. Glad you like him in this story, though!**

 **ksecc1: All your reviews were so kind! And yes, I am also looking forward to seeing where it all goes when the pot "boils over" as you say. Things are sure to get messy!**

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE**

 **Thanks for persevering with me this far, guys! I know it's been an age and a half since I wrote Chapter 12, but I had some difficulties with pacing and how to divide up this chapter. Even now I'm not entirely happy with it. However, I felt unequal to the task of writing the entirety of the Tuilere section in one chapter. There's just too much of it, and I think it would become boring. The rest of Tuilere will be in Chapter 14.**

 **I'm actually going to give you a little tidbit of information: Chapter 14 will be written solely from Boromir's perspective. I'm saying this now to hold myself to that resolution. I think it'll help Winter's character to observe her from the perspective of another person. :) It also shouldn't be too long till Chapter 14 - a few days at most. I'm on a roll with Tuilere and I'll be pumping it out soon.**

 **Please feel free to leave some constructive criticism on the story. I love hearing from you guys, your thoughts on my OCs and my interpretations of canon (especially the newly-appeared Denethor).**

* * *

 **CHAPTER QUESTION**

 **Simple: Lachie or Boromir? xD (Just for the lols, this will have no effect on the story I have planned).**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14 - From his eyes**

* * *

Boromir rubbed his arm pensively. The hunter green tunic he wore fit like a silken caress, yet it sat uneasily upon him. Not for the first time that day, he wished fruitlessly for the coarse fabric of a padded jerkin and the weight of chainmail upon his shoulders.

 _Finery is well and good—for women, perhaps_ , he groused, thinking mournfully of his everyday kit left strewn about his chamber.

 _Just one day. One day._

He shook himself.

It was late morning. The court introductions were over, and with them the most tedious part of Boromir's day. Still, he reminded himself with a wry grimace, there were plenty of other perfunctory duties to attend to before Tuilere could be sealed up and tossed aside for another year. The women had departed for the gardens two hours before, taking with them a bower of flowers and their incessant, _mind-numbing_ chatter. In the interlude, he had made idle conversation with several young lords before slipping away to finish some administrative work he ought to have done for his father days ago.

The sun now approached its zenith, signalling that the noonday meal would be served shortly. This was traditionally taken out in the gardens, where the menfolk rejoined the ladies in readiness for the afternoon festivities. Realising he could not linger indoors any longer in good conscience, Boromir rose and stretched. He scratched his lightly-bearded jaw, pushed his chair beneath his desk and set out for the gardens.

As Boromir slipped out of the King's House, he encountered a steady stream of lords ambling towards the gardens.

"Boromir!"

His sharp grey eyes raked the crowd with lightning swiftness. Seconds later, a tall man several years Boromir's senior materialised from the crowd.

"Aearon!" the Steward-prince replied, smiling as the other approached. They clasped forearms in a brotherly fashion.

" _Captain_ Aearon," that gentlemen teased.

Boromir raised an eyebrow at his companion in an attempt at severity. Aearon laughed merrily, the gravity of his informality lost in his twinkling gaze.

"Very well, _Captain_ ," Boromir replied. "This is happy news indeed, though I was made aware of it some weeks ago! I must congratulate you, friend. Come, let us walk together, and you shall tell me of the progress of war."

Aearon fell into step beside him as they moved across the seventh tier towards the gardens. He was a lean, bright-eyed man, the younger son of well-to-do lord in Tolfalas. With the advantage of inheritance bestowed on his elder brother, Aearon had been sent to Minas Tirith at an early age to become a military man. Fortunately, the occupation suited him. He was a shrewd commander, though lacking Boromir's effortless military savvy, and had advanced quickly to command an entire company. His long stretches in Minas Tirith had rendered him a firm friend of both Boromir and Faramir.

"All news of war is both joyous and grievous," Aearon shrugged, frowning slightly. He tugged his long warrior's tail of hair over his shoulder and fiddled with the ends. "Did you hear aught of Captain Elendir's fall?"

Boromir frowned darkly. "Aye; poor news to receive whilst one sits idly by."

Aearon nodded in sympathy; he shared the Steward-prince's distaste for administrative work.

"I was acting-Captain of the Third Company of Minas Tirith for a full fortnight before we received word and I was made Captain," he said. Then he grinned. "I suppose I must attribute the speediness of the return to your highly-regarded administration skills, friend."

 _Dangerous ground, Aearon._

"Perhaps," Boromir admitted, hiding a smile behind his hand. Moments later, they entered the gardens. Conversation between the pair halted as Boromir was forced to return polite salutations with dozens of passing nobility.

 _How does Faramir ever do it?_ He marvelled, struggling ineffectually to remember the name of a minor nobleman and eventually responding with a generic greeting.

"This is worse than a hard skirmish," muttered Aearon, under his breath. The two men were moving slowly but steadily toward the tables of food served for lunch. Light chatter and the noise of insects slipped through the muggy air. Despite the fresh breeze and the sun upon his head, Boromir felt distinctly claustrophobic.

"Let us withdraw a little," he muttered to his friend, finally arriving at the table. For a moment, he stared dolefully at the dainty pastries and finger food.

 _Is there a food shortage that Father did not inform me of?_

Aearon eyed it with similar distaste, before taking some anyway and waiting. Boromir followed suit, grousing inwardly at the stupidity of traditions that involved not only unnecessary pomp, but also starvation.

The return journey away from the luncheon tables was equally slow. At last, Boromir and Aearon found themselves at a little distance from the others beneath a tree.

"As little as I enjoy a nation at war," remarked Boromir darkly, "I half-wish the skirmishes upon our borders would multiply tenfold. Were the threat from outside powers greater, there would be far less expectation for the Captain-General to remain in Minas Tirith, wrestling with quill and ink."

As alarming as the sentiment sounded, it made perfect sense to Aearon. The other man grunted his agreement through a mouthful of pastry.

"I would willingly never return from the front," Boromir continued. "Yet Father calls me hence, demanding that I learn more of the administration of Gondor. He urges me to marry; he urges me to spend time courting the favour of the noblemen. He urges—ah, Lord Ninniachon, how do you fare?"

The dark, thin-faced Lord of a small holding in Andrast bowed low to the Steward-prince.

"Well indeed, my Lord Boromir. I see you are returned from the front."

Boromir shot Aearon a meaningful look as he replied. "Indeed; my Father saw fit that I returned home for the celebration of Tuilere."

Ninniachon gave a cool smile. "I am glad to hear it. Ever is it an honour to see the Steward-prince of Gondor in attendance at such occasions. We are blessed indeed that you spare time for things of lesser importance than the defence of the realm."

Boromir could think of no suitable response to the poorly-veiled barb, instead smiling stiffly. Aearon's lips were pressed together in annoyance.

"Well," continued Ninniachon, coolly, "I had best return to my wife. Good day, Lord Boromir."

As the slimy lord strode away, Aearon exhaled angrily. "Snake!"

"Do you think he overheard us?" Boromir asked, slight doubt gnawing at him.

"I do not believe so. Lord Ninniachon would seek out a rumour if he had to search the length of the Anduin to find it. Nay; I think he merely sought to ruffle you, and our prior topic of conversation happened to pertain to his insults."

Boromir exhaled, running a hand through his unbound hair. "Is it rude to admit I am glad that Lord Ninniachon's lands are so far from Minas Tirith?"

"Nay," came his companion's cheerful reply.

The son of the Steward frowned slightly. The pair stood with their backs to a tree, looking out upon the milling crowd. Occasionally, one or two folk would catch Boromir's eye, and he would raise a hand in greeting. Others moved over to say hello in person— _or make snide comments_.

"Well, confound Lord Ninniachon; I would far rather be miles away, standing with the garrison at Osgiliath," Boromir muttered, after two other men had approached them bearing perfunctory civilities.

"And I," returned Aearon pragmatically, "but there is naught we can do about the matter at present. When are you set to return to the front? My marching orders are in a fortnight's time."

"I am stationed here for an indefinite period," replied the Steward-prince, bitterly.

"Ah. Is there no compensation for your remaining here? Did I not hear rumours you had been seen frequently in the company of a young noblewoman of Anfalas?" Aearon's tone shifted from empathetic to teasing.

Boromir cleared his throat and scratched his beard.

"Rumours, Captain Aearon?"

"Aye, friend; do not protest, I know you far too well for that. Could this be to do with Lord Denethor's desire for you to marry?"

Boromir scoffed, flushed with anger at the playful glint in his friend's eye. "No indeed! Father has no real designs for me, though his hints are persistent and I fear he shall take action before too much time has passed. Nothing has been said as of yet, however, so put that out of your mind, Captain Aearon," he stated flatly.

"How can I, when I myself have seen you ride abroad with that red-headed queen of yours? Tell me, is she here today?"

 _Ah, Faramir, how I wish I had you now!_

Before Boromir could quell Aearon's teasing, a middle-aged lord made a tentative approach towards the pair.

"Lord Tingon," Boromir rumbled, nodding.

"Lord Boromir," the other man replied. "Captain Aearon."

The latter returned the greeting, though Boromir could feel Aearon's bold and teasing look throughout the conversation.

"I am gladdened to see you today, my Lord," Tingon nodded, a slight smile softening his face. "I hate to speak to you of trivial matters at such a time, yet I thought I had best take this opportunity of speaking with you."

"By all means, do not distress yourself. Speak," Boromir assured him, with more enthusiasm than he might have displayed at another time.

Tingon smiled again. He was a quiet fellow; weak, Boromir would have said. Denethor certainly considered him of little importance to the political state of the kingdom. Still, Boromir was not about to slight such an amiable and convenient distraction from Aearon's insolence.

"I merely wished to ensure that my audience with your honoured father, the Lord Steward, had not been forgotten in the busyness of Tuilere," Tingon smiled. "We have a great deal to discuss concerning the transportation of crops."

 _A duller thing I cannot comprehend._

"I am certain it has not been forgotten," lied Boromir, totally unaware of whether Denethor had recorded the meeting.

"Excellent," replied the older lord. "It is of utmost importance, as I am certain both you and your father, the Lord Steward, are aware. And you, Captain Aearon, and my congratulations on your recent promotion!"

"Thank you, Lord Tingon," came Aearon's smooth-as-silk reply. Boromir wanted to give him a hearty shove.

Tingon gave a smarmy bow.

"Most obliged, my lords. And now I shall bid thee good day."

"If I must make polite conversation with another nobleman over—"

"Peace, Boromir!" laughed Aearon, revealing a row of white teeth. "Ah, friend, you are truly your brother's opposite. Now let us enjoy Tuilere as best we may. I shall cease teasing you about your noblewoman—oh, do not look at me so! You know I do not quail before your glares these days—if you shall only point her out to me. I ask again: is she here?"

Boromir pursed his lips and scratched his jaw with one finger. His eyes raked carelessly over the crowd. It took but a moment to locate the only woman with red hair gathered on the seventh tier— _at least she is not hard to find_. She was sitting beneath a tree with a demure girl Boromir did not know. Their maids stood behind them, and the ladies were laughing and talking prettily. The other was certainly lovely, but Lady Faenil drew his gaze.

"Ah, I found her," said Aearon, smug. "Hair as of flame!"

"Hm," Boromir grunted.

"She is very beautiful! And you say there is no real design on your father's part to have you married off to such a woman, Boromir?"

"None really; and I shall be back in Osgiliath before he attempts such a thing."

"Shame," mused Aearon. "Might I claim her, if you don't want her? She's very exotic."

Anger flared in Boromir, as bright as Lady Faenil's hair.

"Come, Aearon! You are bold enough in most circumstances, but this I will not stand," Boromir growled, glowering. A nobleman who had almost approached him was frightened off by the intensity of his glare, and scuttled away. "You shall not take such liberties, nor speak so of Lady Faenil! It is unbecoming and unseemly."

"Peace, peace," put in Aearon, swiftly, his countenance solemn. "I did not intend to cause offence, Boromir. I shall say no more of her."

"And I shall say no more to you, today," muttered Boromir.

"You shall desert me?" Aearon raised an eyebrow. "And to whom shall you turn?"

Against his own will, Boromir flushed a hale shade of red. "I have promised to spend the afternoon in Lady Faenil's company."

The sound of Aearon laughing into his sleeve was rather like a hunting cat producing a hairball.

"Oh, silence," Boromir harrumphed, exasperated with his friend's impudence. "Fare well, Aearon."

Boromir ducked his head and prepared to cross the stretch of grass between his tree and Lady Faenil's. As he strode away, he heard his friend call out, " _Captain_ Aearon."

He shook his head in mingled exasperation and amusement. Perhaps Aearon's greatest quality as a friend was his ability to rile him up and simultaneously prevent him from becoming truly angry.

Tossing the teasing aside, Boromir shook himself and focused on Lady Faenil. She had seen him approach and was watching him with a curious expression. She seemed tranquilly pleased, though beneath this Boromir caught glimpses of a daring and arch undercurrent.

 _What is it she is thinking?_ He pondered, glad to put Aearon out of his mind.

He was not given long to consider it. As he stepped beneath the shady eaves of the tree, Lady Faenil rose from her bench with the other lady.

"Lord Boromir," she said, smiling slightly and curtseying.

"Lady Faenil," replied he, taking in her appearance. As much as he scorned his father's idea of marriage, was he not allowed to admire a pretty woman? Could he not appreciate her smooth skin, her twinkling grey-blue eyes, and the way her dress hung about her?

"It is a pleasure to see you, my Lord. May I introduce a friend of mine, Lady Silef of Andrast?" Lady Faenil said, drawing forth the lady at her left hand. A hint of smugness traced Lady Faenil's features as Boromir turned from her to the raven-haired woman.

Lady Silef's wide blue eyes caught him off guard with their beauty. She carried all the typical features of a lady of Gondor, though she was, admittedly, very striking.

She smiled, tenuously, rather like a young animal catching its first sight of a human. She blinked several times, and murmured, "It is a pleasure, my Lord." Oh, she was exquisite, but she was as flighty as a young doe.

He turned back to Lady Faenil, who was watching him with a bold eye. Her red hair glinted over her shoulders, spilling onto the cream of her gown. One corner of his mouth tilted upwards.

"Nay, the pleasure is all mine, Lady Silef," Boromir returned, with his greatest effort at civility of the day. The girl—for girl she was—matched the colour of a rose. Seeing her bashfulness made Boromir feel as if he fumbled in the dark. These shy ladies left him utterly baffled. They also rendered Lady Faenil a very attractive companion for the afternoon.

Boromir watched as Lady Silef exchanged a woman's look with Lady Faenil. Then, the former seemed to grow in confidence and addressed him.

"Lady Faenil has told me you have secured her company for the afternoon. I shall not detain you any longer. Good day, Lady Faenil; my Lord Boromir." The girl curtseyed, clasped hands with her friend, and slipped away with a doe-eyed smile and her maid in tow.

"I am glad to find you at last, Lady Faenil," Boromir remarked, much more at ease with the departure of Lady Silef.

"Ah yes, I see you have been much occupied with Second Captain Aearon and many of the other lords," Faenil nodded, sagely.

"Captain Aearon."

"I beg pardon, my lord?"

"Captain Aearon," Boromir repeated, tasting the words bitterly after the former's teasing. "He has been recently promoted."

"Captain of the Third Company?"

Boromir frowned a little at her, once more taken off guard by her uncanny knowledge of the world of men. "Indeed, lady; you are well informed. How came you to know of Captain Aearon's posting?"

Faenil only hesitated for the barest second. "Oh, he was a very distant acquaintance of my brother's. They do not know each other well," she amended, "but I knew of his position through my brother."

"Your brother is more communicative than most, I believe."

"Perhaps," smiled Faenil, her eyes sparkling. Then the twinkle was gone, and her countenance smoothed over to perfect implacability.

Boromir glanced over his shoulder, noting the milling group behind him. Several pairs of eyes were trained on he and Lady Faenil, despite her maid in attendance. Longing to escape, he sighed.

"Might we walk about the garden until the time comes for the children's dance?"

Faenil, whose eyes had also lingered upon the watching crowd, nodded. "Certainly, my Lord. You may follow us, Aeglossel," she added to her maid, who bowed her head and fell in behind them as they set out across the grass. Faenil seemed to relax as they withdrew.

Boromir glanced down at her, walking at his left hand. Her arms swung freely at her sides, and her face was thoughtful as she looked about her.

"How do you enjoy your first Tuilere in Minas Tirith, Lady Faenil?"

"Oh, very well," she replied, offhandedly. "The Wreathweaving was very enjoyable, though I must still await the rest of the day to offer any real conclusion."

He stole another glance at her. His pique at Aearon faded with their footsteps, and his general good humour seeped back in. Teasing, he swallowed and spoke.

"I could not help but notice you in my father's court this morning," he remarked, noting her reaction with merry eyes. "I believe you outshone every lady present."

Despite the fact she stared ahead, Boromir saw Faenil's cheek tipped with pink. One hand stole upwards to finger the ends of a ruddy lock.

"Th—thank you, my Lord."

He chuckled inwardly, ever amused by this woman's blushes. She was not one easily unnerved by flirtation, he perceived. Many times, he caught a flash of indignation in her gaze as he teased and prodded. Oh, she restrained herself, but the fire was present, and he enjoyed the baiting.

For an instant, he recalled his thoughts of earlier; _Faramir_. Not only would the little brother have disapproved of his blithe flirtation, but probably been far better at winning Lady Faenil's attention with true-hearted kindness.

 _And yet, were Faramir here, I doubt I would bestow this time upon Lady Faenil, as uncharitable as that sounds._

 _And should you not? Should not your first duty be to your kin?_

 _Of course. I shall not apologise for this. And, as Faramir is not here, there is no harm in speaking with Lady Faenil thus._

"These are lovely!"

Boromir turned to see Lady Faenil moving aside, her attention turned towards a bushy garden bed. It was largely occupied by a grey-greenish shrub coated in pale yellow blossoms. Each flower was a fluffy bud. As the breeze tousled the bush, Boromir caught a whiff of a honeyed scent.

Lady Faenil moved briskly across the lawn. She cupped one of the fuzzy blossoms in her hands, her mouth spread wide in an enraptured grin. Like a child, she drew the flower towards her face and inhaled its scent in a posture of unalloyed ecstasy. Her smile lit up her face, and at once she seemed to encompass the spring day; creamy-rose skin, hair like ruddy marigolds, eyes glinting as the sky.

 _If I were in need of a wife, as Father seems to think I am, I could do worse than Lady Faenil._

"What do you call these?" that lady demanded, turning to face him with delighted intensity. As she met his warm eyes, her expression faded. It was rather like he had doused her in icy water, for her smile disappeared as swiftly as it had come.

"I am no florist, my lady," Boromir replied archly, his lips upturned. He moved closer to her, maintaining eye contact and longing to see her smile return.

Lady Faenil made a soft _hmph_ sound. "You're no Prince Charming, either."

Boromir's brow lowered. "Who is this Prince Charming you speak of?" For an instant, surprise and suspicion seized him. He knew of no man by the name of Charming—an odd name, at that—nor of any save the young Lord Éomer of Rohan who could rightly be called Prince.

 _Does she refer to Isildur's heir?_ He wondered in disbelief, the thought a bare whisper in the dark. Later, her marvelled that he had thought of such a thing.

 _Nay, surely not; what would Lady Faenil know of this matter? What hope do we even have that such a King of Men might come to save Gondor from its ruin?_

 _Well, she knows of many things one would not expect. And we must trust to hope. Does Faramir not believe that the true King must return?_

 _And yet… Isildur's heir, Prince Charming? I think not._

He drew himself away from his thoughts, heavy gaze lingering on Lady Faenil's face. She appeared… could it be amused? Her cheeks had flushed pink, and she chewed on her lip with her eyes downcast. Yet her mouth was upturned, and she seemed to struggle with herself.

"Oh, he is no one, my Lord," she assured him, gathering herself beneath his stormy look. Her humour faded. "Merely an upstart Prince of a tiny holding to the North. He is no real prince, he merely enjoyed the title and adopted it for his own pleasure. He certainly lived up to his name, however, for he was very well-mannered. He paid an informal visit to my father several years ago; I believe every lady in Anfalas rather hoped he would court them," she finished, with a careless smile. "I have not laid eyes upon him in some half-dozen years, and I suppose I never shall again."

Boromir nodded slowly, drinking this in. His hopes about the Heir of Isildur were not entirely dashed. "Was he a man of Gondor, my Lady?"

"Prince Charming?" Lady Faenil asked, turning back to him, for she had once more returned to her naïve admiration of the flowers.

"Yes, Lady Faenil."

"Oh, certainly not," she laughed lightly. "More likely of Rohan, though he lacked the stature of a man of either of the southern kingdoms of Men."

Boromir exhaled, certain what she spoke must be true. This could not be the one that his little brother hoped for, to save Gondor from its inevitable decline.

"I see." He pondered a moment more, as Lady Faenil fussed over the flowers after the frivolous pattern of all noblewomen. "Lady Faenil?"

"Yes?"

"This prince, you say, was a charming personage."

She coughed slightly before replying. "Yes, Lord Boromir."

"And yet you say I am his opposite?"

He spoke the question with a vein of daring in his voice. Could he have been mistaken in her meaning? His chest stirred with indignation and pride, his eyes lingering on her back with hawklike awareness of her movements.

"Completely, my Lord."

Her words struck him dumb. Annoyance flooded through him. Two steps carried him to her side, where he stood until she turned to face him. Oh, she would answer for this audacity, to say that he was uncouth and unmannerly!

"Do I mistake your meaning, Lady Faenil?" he growled, marvelling at her insolence. His face felt hot from mortification.

Lady Faenil shot him a winning smile. "Oh, certainly not sir. Prince Charming was small and slight and fair, and he was a man of poetry and sonnets and fair ballads beneath a maiden's window. He was very taken with romance. Surely you do not mean to tell me that you would compose a love letter which spans a score of pages if you loved a woman? Or that you would take up a harp and sing her praises to the city, until she deigned to descend from her home and speak to you?" Her face was innocent, yet her grey-blue eyes twinkled with merriment. "Are you _that_ kind of man, Lord Boromir?"

If possible, her teasing left him more embarrassed. "Such thoughts had never occurred to me, Lady Faenil, nor shall they," he snapped. His cheeks flushed at the thought of such foppish behaviour in a man, and as they did so he caught a light of triumph in Lady Faenil's eyes.

"And so," she concluded, coyly, "you are no Prince Charming, my Lord Boromir." With that, she smiled in perfect composure, and returned to her study of the plant. "Though I shall admit; I do wish you knew what I might call these. There are many of them in the gardens in my home, though they are trees rather than shrubs."

Boromir, still fuming from her verbal aerobics, remained silent.

"At home, we call them _wattle_ , though I daresay that is a very provincial thing to say, and I had best seal the word from my lips." She glanced up at him, countenance bright once more. The triumph at his expense was gone, but she still seemed in unusually good humour.

 _Must be the spring day,_ he growled silently, cursing both Tuilere and this sly noblewoman. Ah, how he wished he'd followed his instincts and fled the city unannounced, to return to Faramir and the simplicity of a military life.

 _It appears,_ came the wry thought, _that Lady Faenil enjoys baiting you as much as you do her._

 _And here, to my disgust, I find a foe worthy of my mettle._

For another few minutes, Lady Faenil drank in the sight and smell of her _wattle_ , seeming to have an odd attachment to a plant she had seen mere weeks before. In that interlude, Boromir folded his arms and glowered at the garden and celebration in general. His frustration faded, replaced with a begrudging admiration for Lady Faenil. He was more certain than ever that she was not the demure woman she attempted to be in his company.

Eventually, even her beloved wattle must have grown dull, for Lady Faenil suggested they walk onwards. Her bright head turned this way and that as she admired plants within the garden. She seemed to know the names of as many as he did—that is to say, very few—but she enjoyed them nevertheless. Some metres behind them trailed Lady Faenil's maid.

"Do you suppose I shall be reprimanded by your gardeners if I were to pick a few of these?" she asked him, as they passed a bed full of dainty pink and white buds.

Boromir shrugged gruffly. "I do not suppose so."

Lady Faenil smiled up at him girlishly. "Then I shall."

With due care for the delicate cream gown she wore, she crouched beside a flower bed and began to select a neat arrangement of soft buds, gathering them into a tiny posy. Boromir watched as she worked with deft fingers. After a minute, her womanly fancy bored him, and he began to scan their surrounds. Not far ahead stood a blossoming pear tree— _I must raid that when I return after the summer—_ and several other scattered garden beds. Thoroughly sick of the entire Tuilere proceedings, Boromir scuffed at the grass with his boot. As they lingered, Lady Faenil's maid withdrew to a more discreet distance.

 _What I wouldn't give for a drill sword and a good opponent…_

His gaze ambled across the land until they paused on the garden bed Lady Faenil was raiding. Amidst the unknown buds was one small plant Boromir certainly did recognise.

 _Jasmine._

 _Ah. Perfect._

He moved with the same bold decisiveness which had carried him through many a battle. Leaning down, he reached past Lady Faenil's shoulder and plucked a jasmine flower from the stem.

"Your posy would not be complete without this, my lady," he informed her, with perfect gravity.

"I already have several," she protested mildly, showing him the other jasmine buds already included.

"This will look very nice in the centre," he persisted, pleasantly amazed that she did not recognise the jasmine for what it was.

"I suppose so." Lady Faenil seemed doubtful—and took the flower from him to add to her posy. "There. Are you pleased now? I think it's done." She dusted off her hands on the grass and rose.

He stood there watching her, mouth upturned in a smug smile. Noting his countenance, Lady Faenil froze.

 _Ah, she is far too well acquainted with me._

"Do you recognise that flower, Lady Faenil?" he inquired.

"No." She glanced blankly between the posy and him. Perhaps her herb-lore was lacking, but her mind was no less sharp for that deficiency. Within an instant, she seemed to piece together the proffered flower, his self-assured visage, and Tuilere tradition.

"Oh."

Lady Faenil's face flushed pink. It was not the coy, bashful blush of a woman flattered, but look of one heartily discomfited—and almost annoyed. For a fleeting second he wished he had not given her the jasmine flower. Then he recalled her earlier mocking.

"I believe, my lady, that I am now entitled to a favour," he teased, stepping closer and smiling down upon her. She blushed even more heartily. The eyes that met his were neither teasing or triumphant, but distrustful.

 _What reason has she to distrust? What might I have done which convinces her I could harm a woman and a lady?_

"Perhaps you are, my Lord," she replied, stiffly. She did not move. Boromir took another step closer, until they stood less than an arm's length apart. Her wariness was like a reproach. Heedless of any watchers, including Lady Faenil's maid—it was Tuilere, after all, and everyone grew a little mad at Tuilere—he reached up to cup her face as he had once before. She grew taut and wary, but did not withdraw. For a second, her eyes flickered to where her maid stood, almost an entreaty for help.

At another time, Boromir might have grabbed her and kissed her roughly, delighting in the bawdy triumph of getting a woman to accept a jasmine flower on Tuilere. Something in Lady Faenil's gaze halted that action.

She watched him, wary as a girl and fiercely daring. He marvelled she had not refused to honour the tradition outright, so intense was the look of frustration at her ensnarement. Nevertheless, he would not back down.

He leaned down to meet her, his mouth moving purposefully to catch her lips. For an instant, the taste of her caught him unguarded. Her mouth was velvety-soft and minty, her lips supple beneath his. For all her looks of apprehension, she was sweet and responsive to his touch. With a start, he realised this was not the chaste brush of the lips most men claimed with their jasmine flower. He withdrew, though his hand lingered on her cheek a moment longer as he stepped backward.

Lady Faenil's eyes moved anywhere but his face. Boromir watched her intently, seeing the catch in her breath as she recovered her composure. There was a visceral satisfaction in seeing her flustered, as much as he knew Faramir would have reproached him for it.

He drew his eyes aside to give the woman a moment's privacy. He scratched his jaw and glanced casually about. No one seemed to have notice the moment of intimacy—except, perhaps, the maid, who was pretending admirably she had seen nothing. For some reason, that was relieving; perhaps it had been too long since he had kissed a woman. Several years, in fact, since the past few springs he had known no lady worthy of any real interest. Still, kissing Lady Faenil had made him feel a clumsy boy again, a feeling he abhorred.

"Shall we walk onwards?"

Her question caught Boromir off guard. As he turned to survey her, she moved forward briskly, a pleasant yet blank expression gracing her visage. Every aspect of her shattered composure had been regathered with admirable speed. Surprised at her serenity, Boromir remained rooted to the spot.

"Come, Aeglossel," Lady Faenil informed her maid, not pausing to await his company. Realising with a start he was to be left behind, Boromir hastened until he fell into step beside her.

"It must be nearly time for the children's dance," she said lightly, as he joined her.

"Nearly," came his absent reply.

Lady Faenil smiled. "I am looking forward to it."

And he would have believed her, save for the way her white knuckles gripped the posy with the jasmine flower in the centre.

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE**

 **Tuilere. I've been plotting this bit for a long while, and not for the reasons you think. Based on other stories I've written, I can imagine some interesting reactions to this. I'm hoping you'll be following the trail of crumbs I've left, but if not, I'm going to give you some hints.**

 **Study Boromir's reactions. This is not the Steward-prince being infatuated with Winter. I never intended it to be, and I hope I've characterised him well enough that you see his macho behaviour for what it is. I also hope (because this is something that matters A LOT to me) that you see how much Faramir means to him. At any rate, take it with a grain of salt, read on, and have a think about the whole thing. Also, rest assured that it is not merely to establish a "love triangle" in the story. Trust me. Please. I'm not a complete noob and I despise chucking in a second romantic partner just to prove the character's desirability. This is not what this is. ^_^**

 **I did actually struggle to write this, though, mostly because it was a huge stretch from one POV and in one whole scene (fanfiction makes me lazy; I just swap scenes when I get bored, whereas in real writing its more continuous). I do hope you enjoy it, and also get a funny glimpse of Winter. This is supposed to be a somewhat light chapter. (Hopefully.)**

* * *

 **REVIEWS**

 **Thanks again to everyone who reviewed the last chapter!**

 **Most of you were just responding to the Boromir vs. Lachie thing (YAY LACHIE SUPPORTERS) or being excited for the next chapter, so thanks for that. :) I won't reply to those individually, but please know that your reviews matter and each little piece of encouragement I get just makes my heart glow!**

 **I look forward to hearing from more of you on this chapter's review round.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER QUESTION**

 **What do you think would be your favourite part of attending Tuilere, and what tradition would you most want to find out about? The Wreathweaving, the Tuilere Children's Dance, the tree planting, the ball, or something else?**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15 - Lord Lossemen**

* * *

 _1_ _st_ _April, 3007_

 _Dear Jimmy,_

 _Hard to believe it's been over a month since we all got thrust into this crazy adventure, isn't it? April already! I hope that its defrosting a little in the north and you're seeing the start of spring. It is already nice here, with warm and sunny days. Now that the weather is getting so lovely it's frustrating to be caught inside practicing Healing!_

 _Speaking of which, my occupation here is going really well. I'm learning plenty from the Healers, and my_ byrath _Badhor has received word from Calaron that I should start infiltrating the Houses with my knowledge from Earth. I've been going through some of the anatomy books and correcting some of the very wrong things (it's little short of bleeding people to death, James). I've also been anonymously writing whole new sections for the journals, under the pseudonym of a healer that Calaron made up when he founded the program. I scribble notes in my room in Lord Lossemen's house, and then slip them in amidst the other letters as if they had come in the post. Ioreth eats them up, which is especially good because April and May are the months that they review their techniques. We usually get a big influx of men in the summer months (as that's when the war is thickest) so they like to check out the newest medical information before that. I don't know as much as a doctor, but I can sure correct their ideas of what the human body does!_

 _I hope things are going just as well on your end. I'll be very excited to see your treatises on Middle-earth when they're done. If they're as funny as your letters I'm sure they'll entertain the masses._

 _Been seeing a disgusting amount of Boromir lately. He's been insufferable since Tuilere, always dropping in and out. Getting rather sick of the big git, with his armour and his stomping horse. Oh well, I guess I shouldn't be complaining to be in constant company with THE Boromir of Gondor. The grass is always greener on the other side, Jimbo—remember that._

 _In other news, I've started to make friends! Don't scoff, James, it's rude. No, I have, truly. I've met some lovely women. The first is Silef, who I_ SWEAR _is Zooey Deschanel living out a Middle-earth fantasy. No kidding. It's brunette-her. Anyway, she's great, and there's another woman I met at Tuilere called Eregnith. She's a few years older, married to a nobleman, and lives not far from me. She's very sensible and we talk about proper things, not the state of fashion in Minas Tirith and that kind of rubbish. There's also Ólwen and Hwinnith, and that rounds out our little circle of intimacy. Delightful, isn't it? I feel like a younger version of the "Real Housewives" or something, with my little clique of mates. Wait a moment while I throw up._

 _I started this letter thinking I had all afternoon to finish it, but now I've run out of ink. Honestly, what I wouldn't give for a simple ballpoint pen! Quills seem great in theory, I suppose. I'd better go before my greetings fade away because I've nothing left to write them with. I'm sure (as usual) we'll correspond again soon._

 _Lots of love,_

 _Winter._

 _Ps. The gift you sent is still my greatest source of entertainment. Thanks again._

* * *

Winter managed to scratch James' details on the front of the envelope before her supply of ink finally dwindled to nothing. She picked up her epistle and blew absently on the ink to dry it.

It was almost a relief to find her inkpot had run dry, for she found she had little more to say to her friend. Her supply of anecdotes was as depleted as her writing materials. Lachie's letters had always been tricky to write, but since Tuilere Winter had found that even James's required hard labour. Each witticism was hard-won.

Realising she was still blowing air onto the already-dry envelope, Winter dropped it on her desk and rose. She stretched her arms upward, loosening the kinks in her back.

The spring sunshine splayed across her bedchamber with golden fingers. A sweet breeze had also begun to wander in with the passing of noon, toying saucily with the curtains.

Winter wandered across the floor towards her bedroom balcony. Today was an "off" day. Without work in the Houses, she'd spent the morning exploring the city and then bathed early. Wrapped in a silken robe, she'd left orders with Aeglossel that she was not to be disturbed until dinnertime, except in an emergency.

The balcony-veranda—Winter wasn't sure precisely what feat of architecture it was—was pure bliss in the perfect spring weather. Winter moved to lean on the railing, wordlessly drinking in the view of the Pelennor. March showers had left the earth vibrant green. The breeze carried up the fresh smell of growth, masking the pungent aroma of the city itself.

Winter rested her elbows on the rail and stared mindlessly out.

She felt rather like an automaton, wandering dutifully about without really cognising anything that went on; a zombie, a wraith. It was as if the soul and purpose had been knocked out of her at Tuilere, that day of false smiles and _Boromir._

She scowled at nothing.

Her simmering anger at the Steward-prince had subsided in the days since Tuilere. She was not, by nature, a cold and resentful person. Her anger flared swift and hot and had long-since dissipated. Still, that did not mean she had forgiven Boromir for his outrageous behaviour. Every one of his carelessly-barbed comments had dragged by with agonising slowness. She'd writhed beneath his bold stare, longing to lash out and yet finding herself hopelessly entangled. He was utterly _insufferable_.

And then he had kissed her, and she'd wanted to howl and flee and kiss him back all at once. She had stepped into his snare with wide-eyed innocence and accepted that _stupid_ flower. She'd been thrust into understanding of her own idiocy with as much shock as she'd felt participating in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge—which was to say a _lot_. And then, he had kissed her with such confidence that she'd melted to his touch. That, perhaps, was the worst part of it. As much as she was irritated by Boromir of Gondor, Winter had become as spineless as a jellyfish and let him take his liberty. In short, she was disgusted with herself.

 _Where's your assertiveness, your feminist spark?_

 _Left it behind in Brisbane, I'm afraid. Wasn't room for it in my bag._

She snorted at her own wit.

 _So why didn't you tell James about it all?_

Winter paused, dreading the answer. As far as she knew, Aeglossel was the only one who knew about Boromir's stolen kiss. They had been at some distance from the other nobles, partially screened by plants and trees, and on Tuilere there was a great deal more leniency around courting and intimacy between couples.

 _So really, unless Boromir's been having a little PJ goss session in his room with some of his BFFs, no one knows about it except us._

 _And Aeglossel._

 _Yep._

 _Do you think she'll tell anyone?_

 _What purpose would that serve?_

 _None, I guess, but sometimes the world doesn't make sense. Like today. Like this entire trip to Middle-earth. Goodness, things are topsy-turvy._

Winter sighed again. She wished fervently that her best friend Abby was available for an impulsive phone call. She longed for someone to confide in about the Boromir incident. The last thing she wanted to do, however, was rile Túiel and Badhor into a frenzy about the potential for scandal—and when she had attempted to spell out the moment to James via letter, the words wouldn't come. Somehow, "Boromir claimed a kiss from me using a sneaky, chauvinistic Gondorian tradition—oh, and I think I may have screwed up the fate of Middle-earth" was a hard phrase to pen.

Thus, Winter lingered in her own frustration and self-loathing. She couldn't wriggle out of more polite meetings with Boromir, because Túiel saw no reason for such rudeness. Nor could she suddenly snub Boromir without blowing her cover or inciting the wrath of the Steward.

 _Oh, we are in a pickle, aren't we…_

Winter leaned down to cup her chin with her hand. With the burst of self-deprecation came a listlessness of spirit she hoped she'd already shaken off. Things had been going so well until this latest development, but her own utter foolishness was a heavy burden. She clung to it and simultaneously reviled it, fearing the consequences and disappointment from her superiors if they were to find out.

 _What will they say? Isn't the first rule of the Arda Exchange Program "don't get romantically involved with the characters"… much less THE characters! Oh, Winter you idiot… worse even than the cringey Leia-Luke kiss at the end of_ The Empire Strikes Back _._

 _And they will find out eventually, you can be sure of that._

 _Do you seriously think Boromir is going to do something about this? Do you think he'd actually fall in love with someone as silly as Lady Faenil?_

 _Well,_ came a grim thought, _it wouldn't be a good sign for his intelligence if he did! Besides, Denethor probably won't let him marry just anyone. And what makes you think he'd suddenly want to get married, when the books don't say that?_

Winter hesitated, suddenly caught by this train of reasoning.

 _No,_ she mused slowly. _You're right. And there's nothing to say that someone like me would change his mind—and the entire plot. Keep calm. Just stay calm._

She stood up straight, holding the balcony rail with her hands instead of leaning on it.

 _You've screwed up again, Winter—but just keep prayin' that your good luck holds and nothing comes of this either._

She rolled her eyes— _can you roll your eyes at your own thought train?_ —and accepted the self-administered slap on the wrist meekly. Still, her own failure— _yet again_ —left her feeling dispirited.

"Are some people just destined to screw up?" she muttered, reaching up to shove her hair out of her face. She had left the long, red waves unbound, enjoying the freedom of a day left to herself.

Receiving no reply but the rustling of a tree below the house, Winter grinned mirthlessly and retreated indoors. Better not to think at times like these, when the yawning black pit of her own stupidity was before her feet.

She wandered through her chamber, passing the bedroom and on into the lavish sitting room. There she had sat, those weeks before, laughing and chatting with James and Lachie. Today, even the comfortable chairs provided by Lord Lossemen that the boys had praised seemed lacking. Winter sank into one numbly.

As she sat, thoughts drifting, memories slipped unbidden to the fore.

 _She was sitting in front of her computer, staring at the OP2 grade from her Year 12 exams that indicated she'd made it into a Bachelor of Physiotherapy at The University of Queensland. She eyed it, knowing it meant success but also failure, for her mother stood behind her with the stinging compliment, "It's wonderful, dear, even if it isn't as good as Howard."_

 _She watched her mother pull the little Christmas packages away from her, saw her pull off Winter's own valiant attempt at wrapping and start afresh. She listened woodenly to the detailed instructions about how to do it properly, and had not the heart to attempt it herself._

 _She waited with Howard and Claire in her graduation robes, glancing about with bitter cynicism, knowing she would not appear and yet hoping with that last unspoiled fragment of her spirit that she would. She didn't, and Winter collected her degree to the gallant applause from her two supporters in the crowd._

"Lady Faenil?"

Winter jumped out of the quagmire as if she'd bumped into her mother's iron.

"Yes?"

She rotated in her seat with jarring swiftness. Aeglossel hovered inside the sitting room, looking less apologetic than Winter would have liked.

"Lord Lossemen to see you, milady."

 _Wha… wait…_

"I beg pardon?"

"Your Father is here, milady," Aeglossel repeated, smiling a little. "Shall I admit him?"

Feeling raw from her disturbing trip down memory lane, Winter frowned and responded more sharply than usual. "I thought I had indicated that I was not to be disturbed except over a matter of urgency."

Aeglossel shrank back. "But your Father is here, milady."

"I don't have—"

"He _very much_ wishes to speak with you, milady."

"But—"

"He understands you are indisposed, but he brooks no refusal, milady."

"Oh, fine, send him in then," Winter cut in, waspishly, marvelling at the girl's uncharacteristic boldness. Aeglossel, her face wooden, retreated. "But you know very well that I have no Father," Winter called out at her maid's fleeing back.

Her only reply was the prim click of the door closing.

Exasperated, Winter clambered to her feet and sighed. Just what she needed, her maid thinking above her station, and a visiting father she did not even know truly existed.

 _Who on earth can it be?_

With a start, she realised she was clad only in her undergarments and a long silk robe. It covered her from wrist to ankle and wrapped snugly about her waist. Perhaps it would have been appropriate to receive a _real_ father, but Winter was utterly lost as to who her surprise visitor could be. Just as she flew towards her bedchamber in the hope of pulling on a day-dress, Aeglossel tapped on the door and entered. With her was a tall, grizzled man in black wearing an amused expression.

"Oh, it's you."

Even as she said it, Winter winced at how stupid her words sounded. Fortunately, Calaron was a great man to laugh, and laugh he did.

"Ah! Winter—or should I say, Lady Faenil?" he beamed, striding across the room. In the background, Aeglossel curtseyed and withdrew.

 _You'll need to apologise to her later,_ came the absent thought, before Calaron seized Winter's shoulders in a paternal greeting. His grey-speckled hair was bound back, but nothing else had changed about the Liam-Neeson-esque Lord of Caoloth.

"Lord Calaron," Winter replied, groping desperately for a cheery visage. If her smile was wooden, Calaron made no comment.

"Good to see you, young lady! Come now, sit. I see I've intruded on your PJ day. Very sorry about that, but what is a father to do, when his daughter won't admit him?" he twinkled at her. "Let's sit and have a nice, family chat."

Winter's second smile was more genuine. "I will admit, I was wondering who on earth would be posing as the famous Lord Lossemen. I'm glad to see it's you."

"Who else?"

"Well," Winter shrugged, "I supposed you'd be too busy."

"Ahah! There you are wrong. I have a dozen or more disguises which I use to travel my way about Middle-earth. You'll find that yours truly is also a trader from Dale who goes away on business trips, _and_ a Breelander, among other things." He smiled at her again, his worn face creasing comfortably into the happy expression. Under his light, teasing influence, Winter found her melancholy seeping away.

"I'm not surprised," she grinned. Then she rubbed her face. "Oh, how good it feels to smile normally, and not be restricting your face to suit these stiff Gondorians!"

Calaron's laughter echoed about Winter's suite. "Ah, I thought you'd struggle with that. It seems you're getting on amiably, though! I've been in contact with both Túiel and Badhor, but I thought I'd come find out how you're going first-hand. How is Minas Tirith, Miss Winter?"

Winter's smile faded a little, and she twisted her hands in her lap. " _Good_. Yeah, really good. I'm having a great time, the city's beautiful—it's a lot of fun."

"Teaching that Ioreth a thing or two about anatomy and physio work, I hope?"

"As much as I reasonably can, sir."

Calaron nodded, pleased. "What about Boromir?"

Winter froze, caught like a rabbit on a Queensland road. She'd known Calaron would have all the details of the Boromir fiasco, but hearing the question from his lips reignited all her fears and insecurities. For several seconds she gaped at him, and then glanced down at her lap to hide the tears which strove to escape.

"Sounds like it's been hard work, from what I hear," said Calaron, gently.

Wrestling with her emotions, Winter could only nod.

 _You. Will. Not. Cry._

"Winter, do you know what the Arda Exchange Program is about?"

"Huh?" Caught off guard by the change in topic, Winter's eyes sought Calaron's. His look was all kindness.

"Do you know what this program is about? Why we do it?"

"I—I thought it was for the mutual benefit of both Earth and Arda," she uttered, slowly. "We learn more about the culture that Tolkien wrote about, and simultaneously try and improve any things that we can without changing the fate of Middle-earth." Bemused by the look in Calaron's eyes, Winter halted.

"Oh, yes, you're not wrong. That's our big special mission statement, of course," he nodded, turning slightly so his body faced her directly. His countenance was lit with earnestness. "But do you _really_ know why?"

Without thinking, Winter rolled her eyes. "Perhaps so that you can personally dominate Rohan's equine market?"

This comment amused Calaron so much that the conversation was halted for a full minute so he could recover.

"Oh, you've not changed at all," he chuckled, rubbing his cheek and watching her fondly. "But no, wrong answer. This program was created for children. For the child in each of us, which has _dreamed_ about seeing Tolkien's world since they first opened _The Lord of the Rings_. Often people are looking for serious motives—and, of course, we had to make up a serious motive in order to get it past the UN. We're not lying either; the Arda Exchange Program is mutually beneficial. We learn, they learn." He paused, and those understanding eyes pierced Winter's soul so that she felt utterly naked. "But in a world where dreams are seldom realised, which urges people to be pragmatic, which scorns childhood fancies as unproductive and unrealistic, we give the inner kid a chance to have a good time. Winter, do you want to know why we picked you for the Arda Exchange Program?"

Eyes averted, she shook her head.

He continued anyway.

"Because you, like so many others, have been told that whims are pointless and to be avoided. You've been taught how to be 'sensible'. Believe me, Bob—you remember Robert Griggs, the guy who interviewed you?—well, Bob is a lot more savvy than you think. He thought you'd benefit from… letting your hair down, kinda."

Winter stared at the silky fabric of her robe, wordless. Calaron waited silently.

 _He's got more patience than a rock, this one._

It took her a moment. More than a moment. Time crawled by as the head of the Program waited, and Winter sat with head bowed. She lingered as the urge to cry to subside, thought a little more, and finally dragged her eyes to join with Calaron's. He didn't wait for her to speak.

"I guess what I'm saying, Winter, is if you leave here a little more loony, creative, dreamy, imaginative, and _confident_ in these things—sorry, I'm out of words—but if that's what the end result of this program is," he paused, "then I am happy."

Pinching a nerve in her elbow to stop herself from tearing up, Winter nodded. Seeing that she had taken in his words, Calaron shot her a cheery grin and a wink.

"Oh, and try not to expose the Program either if you can help it, ok?"

Winter returned his smile weakly. "I'll give it my best shot." She hesitated. "Is that why you're here? To reprimand me about Boromir?"

Calaron laughed again. "Trust me, Winter, if you were getting a scolding, it would be Braigon here and not me. He's way more intimidating. Big muscles, big eyebrows, you know. I'm just here to check up on you, and make sure you're equipped to deal with this as best you can. According to my sources, you're still flying under Denethor's radar, mostly. You're his son's most recent lady companion and he's not taking you seriously. That's the way we want it."

Winter wasn't quite sure how to process her entangled feelings at the moment, so she merely nodded.

"So you're not going to charge in as my Father and forbid me from spending time with Boromir?" she asked, quizzically.

"Sweetie, do you really think that a humble lord like myself would be forbidding you from courting the Steward-prince?" he chuckled.

 _Dumb question, Winter._

"I guess not," she admitted, unable to stifle a smile.

"No. Any action at this stage would be perceived as queer. In the past, Boromir has been known to distract himself by favouring one lady or another for a short time while he is on leave. He hangs out with them a bunch, and then disappears back to the front as soon as his father gives him permission. So far, nothing indicates this is any different to one of his other passing fancies."

Winter's stomach tensed. "And if it isn't?"

"That's partly why I'm here," Calaron smiled. "I have formulated an 'Extract Lady Faenil' plan which we will enact if Badhor reports any change in circumstances."

"'Extract Lady Faenil', huh?"

"Precisely. Any sign Boromir's not just about to drop you for his brother and his war, and we take action. Until then, it's as you were… with discretion, of course. Don't encourage him, don't spill the beans about the Program, don't act suspicious. Your staff here all report you've been doing well, so really, there's nothing to worry about." He concluded this with a broad smile, before leaning forward conspiratorially. "And, honestly, some of the other women Boromir happily left behind were trying very hard to keep his attention, so even if you are a little encouraging, I don't reckon it'll have any adverse effects."

Winter laughed then. "Oh, I can imagine. Probably if I acted clingy he'd drop me like a hot potato."

"Funny saying, that. When was the last time you held a hot potato?" Calaron mused.

"Never."

"Huh. Thought not."

"Look, appreciate the metaphorical nature of my statement."

"Duly noted."

Winter found herself twinkling at the man in amusement. It was hard to be anything but jovial in Calaron's presence.

"So," he said, returning her smile, "how are you _really_ , Winter, now that I've allayed all those fears of yours?"

 _Patient as a rock_ and _a mind-reader._

"Much better now," she stated, with perfect truth. "Glad to hear I'm not about to plummet Middle-earth into disaster. Looking forward to annoying Boromir some more, and truly enjoying my work in the Houses. Also," she added, with a cheeky grin, "a little amazed to discover that you went to all the effort of creating a UN-certified program into another dimension which is _literally_ just for fun."

"You make it sound so base and crass, daughter dear. Don't forget the millions of dollars in scientific equipment and monitoring, resources and education which we spend to get you all here and keep you from detection."

"Oh," Winter laughed. "Sorry."

Calaron waggled a finger at her in mock annoyance. Then he smiled again and leaned back in the chair he occupied. Seeing him relax made Winter realise she was as tense as a taught band. She curled her legs up underneath her and nestled into the opposite end of the lounge, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from her. Calaron, the one she'd been most worried about, was not angry with her. She still wanted to smack her own head against a wall for her stupidity, but it was nice not to feel as if Middle-earth's demise was laid at her door.

"I'm a very good father, aren't I?"

Winter quirked an eyebrow at him, bemused. "Are you?"

"Certainly," Calaron replied, with perfect gravity. "At least, when it comes to material things. I bought you this excellent couch, didn't I?"

* * *

 _3_ _rd_ _April, 3007_

"Do you require assistance, Lady Faenil?"

"No thank you," replied Winter, emphatically. Clutching her skirts in one hand, she climbed easily up the tussocky bank, joining Boromir at the top of the rise. Her sturdy walking boots found purchase on the grass, and her breaths came normally.

"You are not easily daunted, my lady."

Winter turned to him with a slightly quizzical look. "I have climbed many hills in my years, Lord Boromir."

The Steward-prince chuckled, his gaze passing out to the fields beyond.

The pair stood upon a grassy rise in the midst of the Pelennor. Away from Minas Tirith, the fields undulated in gentle hills. Boromir and Winter, along with several attendants each, had just crested one such rise. Stretching away from them was an exquisite vista of green grass and flowering spring shrubs.

The April afternoon was the height of perfection for Winter. It was spring as she had always dreamed about. The sub-tropical Brisbane climate was characterised by ten months of heat and a scarce two months of cooler days. There was no discernible spring in Queensland, save for the weeks in October when the purple jacarandas began to flower. From September to May it was all balmy days and sunshine. In Gondor, however, spring came with the zest of a storybook, bringing with it distinctive flora and noticeably warmer weather.

Ignoring Boromir at her right hand, Winter inhaled deeply and smiled.

 _Beautiful._

It was drawing towards early evening. Lord Boromir had secured Winter's company for a walk on the fields after her day in the Houses. His offer had been surprisingly welcome. The awkwardness of their kiss had begun to dissipate, and Winter always enjoyed the fresh air after a day spent tending patients on the ward. Ioreth had been a hard taskmaster this particular day; it was cathartic to stroll briskly through the fields.

"You walk often, when you are at home, then?"

Winter turned to Boromir, having almost forgotten about him.

 _Funny, that it's now commonplace to go wandering with Boromir of Gondor…_

"Yes, frequently. My brother and I used to venture far afield on my father's estates."

"I see. You walk, and write, and learn about healing. What do you not do, Lady Faenil?"

Winter shrugged, moving slowly forward to descend the hill in front of them.

"Many things, my lord. I am a very poor artist, nor do I excel at speechmaking or any formal writing."

Boromir chuckled as they fell into step once more. His arms swung lustily at his sides. Stealing a glance at him, Winter thought he looked distractingly handsome. His inky hair fell loose to his shoulders, and there was a wholesome set to his countenance as he walked beside her. The easy, athletic grace with which he moved was almost maddening.

Eager to turn the conversation, Winter scratched her ear.

"And what do you occupy yourself with, Lord Boromir, when the affairs of Gondor do not call you away?"

"Nothing that would interest a lady, I am sure," the Steward-prince chuckled. "My leisurely hours are largely occupied in conversation with the other captains, in drilling or in eating and drinking. Seldom do I find myself idle."

"And if your brother, Lord Faramir, were here?"

He hesitated a second before replying.

"I should do whatever Faramir desired, for all things are better in his company. Nevertheless, even then my routine varies little; we should talk amongst ourselves, and ride abroad."

Winter smiled to herself, noting the expression on Boromir's countenance. Many of the latter's quirks irritated her to the extreme, but his love for Faramir was not one of them. In fact, it was one of the few things she could wholeheartedly understand.

 _Ah, Howard, I miss you!_

"What of an evening before the fire, my Lord?"

"I suppose we might play chess," Boromir admitted, pausing and offering Winter a hand down a steep patch. Winter ignored it and scrambled lightly down herself. "Faramir is fond of the game, though it is not one of my favourite past-times. Occasionally he shall read aloud. When he is permitted leave, he often spends time rummaging in the old scrolls of Minas Tirith. Our father is the loremaster of the city, but Faramir is a close second in his knowledge of the Elder Days. I learn much by listening to his scholarship."

Winter nodded in appreciation.

 _I think Faramir would be an excellent person to meet. He sounds like less of a pompous idiot._

"Do you expect to see your brother soon?"

Boromir shrugged bitterly. "I do not know. He commands a company east of Osgiliath, and my Father has not yet indicated when I am to return to the front."

"The army manages without it's Captain-General?"

"For the most part. I receive many missives about the movements of our troops; the Captains of Gondor are capable men." He spoke as if the words tasted bitter, as if he wished the captains required _more_ of his supervision.

Winter glanced up at his face. "You would far rather be in Osgiliath yourself," she stated simply, knowing it was true.

"Ah," Boromir smiled at her, almost apologetically. "It does not sound very complimentary does it, Lady Faenil, when I am here with you?"

"But you will not deny it."

Beat.

"Nay."

 _And that, my friend, is the best news I've heard all week,_ Winter sighed inwardly.

"And I would not countermand such a thing," she nodded, masking delight with equanimity. "It would be a poor thing indeed if the Captain-General reviled his post. I will be glad on your behalf, when you are free to return to what you enjoy."

She felt Boromir's quizzical gaze surveying her.

"Strange words, milady."

Winter shrugged. "I do not believe so. Should we have shirkers commanding the forces of Gondor?"

"Nay indeed," he agreed, seeming to swell with pride. "Still, it is a rare lady indeed who sees it as such. You have not fled in indignation and wrath at my confession. I am glad."

 _And I will be glad when you're free to return to the front. Then I can focus on what I'm actually supposed to be doing here._

"You are welcome," Winter replied, dry.

For a minute or two they walked in silence, stretching their legs in unison across the grass. The land flattened beneath their feet. Winter breathed deep once more. Boromir, too, seemed content with the silence.

 _Several minutes without a flirtatious comment? This has to be a record!_

 _Are you complaining?_

 _Hell no._

Perhaps, she dared hope, it was a kind of camaraderie springing up between them as the days passed. They were certainly more comfortable in one another's company after several weeks of social calls. Winter had even managed to curb some of her blushes, learning to wear the meek mantle of Lady Faenil.

 _Spending time with the Steward-prince no longer quite so abhorrent?_

She grinned downwards.

 _Nah, not quite._

A few minutes later, the pair—and their entourage behind—reached a narrow kind of foot path beaten into the grass. Winter presumed it was made by the shepherds on their daily pilgrimage across the Pelennor. Boromir paused to allow her to pass ahead. Glad for the escape from the scruffy heather, Winter increased her pace slightly.

No longer needing to keep watch on her feet, she turned her admiration to the scenery. Minas Tirith loomed on their right as they passed scattered trees and shrubs. Turning in the other direction, Winter admired a bower of blossoming shrubs. She could hear the faint sound of bees buzzing in and out of the dainty flowers.

So enraptured was she by this quaint sight that she was utterly unaware that the ground dropped before her until she stepped off the trail and lost her footing.

As it turned out, the shepherd's path swept down to the right, clinging along the side of a low bank before crossing a gully some metre or two deep. Winter, distracted, stepped off the edge and found herself bumping down the heathery slope to the bottom.

 _Ow._

It was not a great fall, but her momentum flung her forward onto her knees, her face buried in the thick grass at the bottom of the gully.

"Lady Faenil!"

Her pride being the only thing bruised, Winter scrambled hurriedly to her feet before her entourage rushed forward. Boromir, having followed the trail, swiftly reached the bottom of the gully and hurried to her side.

Mortified, Winter laughed and waved aside his assistance.

"I am quite all right, my Lord," she chuckled, forcing nonchalance. "Merely distracted by the beauty of the day. Yes, Badhor, I am unharmed, do not distress yourself," she called to her _byrath_ , as he hastened towards the lip of the gully and watched her in concern. "I am quite all right." Turning to Boromir, she smiled again in mild embarrassment.

"I am afraid that I have failed you," Lord Boromir twinkled down at her, standing between Winter and the shepherd's trail. "That is, if you fell in order that I might have the pleasure of catching you."

 _…_ _and there we go._

Winter's smile faded and she quirked an eyebrow at him. "In which case I shall take care never to fall again, my Lord."

* * *

 _4_ _th_ _April, 3007_

"It has to be here somewhere," Winter grumbled to herself. She rummaged wildly through her bedside drawer for the fifth time that morning. She'd already pulled everything from it and sifted through the items, but it simply wasn't there.

She'd lost her illegal fake copy of the One Ring.

In _Middle-earth._

"Lady Faenil," called Aeglossel, tapping gently on the open door. "Túiel says it is nearly time to depart."

Winter, who was already dressed for the Houses, sighed loudly. "I know, Aeglossel, and thank you. But I have misplaced a gold ring upon a chain, and it is extremely important that I find it again. Have you seen it?" she asked, eyes imploring.

Aeglossel shook her head, countenance tugged by distress at her lady's misfortune. It appeared that Winter's apology had smoothed over the tension between them; there was not even a trace of offense in Aeglossel's manner.

"I am afraid not, milady."

Winter planted her hands on either side of her own face in desperation. "Ugh, where _has_ it gone? I've been through my entire room more than once!"

"Perhaps you lost it elsewhere, milady," suggested Aeglossel, gently.

 _Yep. That'd be right._

Winter paused, knowing full well Aeglossel was probably correct. She recalled putting on the Ring the previous morning, but after that point her mind was utterly blank. She had worn it under her dress to the Houses, and it had definitely been around her neck when she had changed clothes for her ride with Boromir. And that meant…

"I probably lost it out on the Pelennor, most likely when Boromir and I were walking and I tripped and fell," Winter moaned. "Perfect."

"I am afraid you will not find it again, in that case, milady," cried Aeglossel.

"No, probably not." _But,_ Winter added, silently, _at least out buried deep in that gully, where it's unlikely to be found by anyone else. Could be worse._

"Was it very valuable?"

"Oh, not really, except sentimentally. I'm sad to lose it, but there's nothing more I can do," Winter concluded, resigned, whilst her mind chanted, _Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot._

 _Well, that's what happens when you break the rules and bring a copy of the One bloody Ring to Middle-earth._

 _What would I do without you?_

"That is a shame, milady. Are you ready to depart?"

"Uh, yes, I think so. Wait, just let me check my hair." Winter hurried to the mirror, smoothed her long braid, and snatched her cloak from the bed. "Ready."

Aeglossel closed the door behind them as Winter made a very unladylike dash down the staircase. Túiel, waiting at the bottom, stared her disapproval but remained blessedly silent on that point.

"I was beginning to fear you had decided not to go today," Winter's companion intoned.

"Sorry, Túiel," Lady Faenil replied meekly. "I had best be off."

"Hmph."

Winter shot her companion a winning smile before sweeping out of the house. There she met her two guards, and set out towards the Houses of Healing.

By early April, Winter had traversed the path from Lord Lossemen's home to the Houses countless times. She had explored her surrounds with her eyes so thoroughly that the sight of the Gondorian homes no longer thrilled her. They had blended to become part of the landscape. Oh, certainly, Minas Tirith was no less beautiful— _but I feel… almost like a local, now._

That brought a smile to her face, despite the loss of the Ring.

 _The Ring._

Realising that she'd most likely misplaced the artefact out on the Pelennor was, admittedly, relieving. The likelihood of anyone finding a cheap copy of the One Ring in the miles of grass was nigh on impossible. Besides, some other Exchange Program member had lost it in the same manner near Dale, and nothing untoward had happened.

Most of Winter's disappointment stemmed from the knowledge that James' witty trinket had been lost. It would be a difficult letter to write, explaining to her friend that she had misplaced the One Ring out in the Pelennor Fields whilst going for an afternoon stroll with Boromir of Gondor.

 _Sometimes, the irony of my own life amazes me._

Winter shook herself. There was no point dwelling on it. Besides, she'd been in an unusually good mood the past few days. Calaron's visit had lifted her spirits. Knowing he was not angry with her was like stepping from a hazy gloom into a perfect spring day—rather like the one she enjoyed in the physical. More than that was the memory of his words:

 _"…if you leave here a little more loony, creative, dreamy, imaginative, and_ _ **confident**_ _in these things… then I am happy."_

Winter couldn't place her finger on it, but something about that affirmation sent forth the clearest chime in her soul. The single-note song echoed throughout her like a triumphant call. Precisely what Calaron had worked in her through his honest and unaffected ways, she wasn't entirely sure.

 _And we're not going to jinx it by trying to work it out,_ she thought, firmly. _Enjoy your day, silly, and stop overthinking things._

And so she did.

It was bliss to admire the ivy on a nearby house, to study the design of a fountain and to walk beneath the dappled shade of a garden. By Winter reached the Houses, her countenance shone with contentment. Even Gaerel's sour expression couldn't rattle her.

The dour-faced woman met Winter as she reached the foyer of the Houses. Though she smoothed her features skilfully, Winter felt the disgust in her eyes.

"Ioreth requests your aid in her room, _Lady_ Faenil. She says it is a matter of some urgency."

"Thank you, Gaerel," Winter smiled, to which civility Gaerel remained aloof.

After dismissing her escort and stowing away her light cloak, Winter climbed the stairs and proceeded towards Ioreth's treatment room. The Healer was seldom to be found in her room for any significant period, as she spent most of her day flitting between wards supervising other Healers and offering aid where she could. Thus, it was a surprise for Winter to find her door firmly shut.

She knocked on the wood.

A moment later, the door was pulled ajar and Ioreth's head peeped out.

"Ah, Lady Faenil. Come in, come in." Winter was chivvied gently into the room. As Ioreth began her customary tirade of speech, Winter's swift eyes surveyed the room. It was as neat and ordinary as ever, save for a very large figure sitting on the surgery table.

 _Boromir._

If Winter could have rolled her eyes, she would have.

 _Of course it's him._

 _Of course._

"…and I am afraid it is a most unfortunate accident," continued Ioreth, barely pausing for breath. As she hesitated, Boromir met Winter's look with a sheepish smile. "I am certain you must understand, Lord Boromir does not wish to be treated amongst the other patients. He requested your ministrations, Lady Faenil, for he hears you treated Second Captain Rostor very adeptly. And oh, certainly, girl, you adept enough." She scampered about the room gathering supplies, talking all the while. "I am not sure how you have such a good understanding of the workings of a body, though I am pleased. You certainly are sharp enough, Lady Faenil. And I will say that it is a mercy and a relief to have a girl who knows what she is about, novice as you might be. Ah, but yes. Lord Boromir was involved in drill this morning, and through a nasty occurrence—which, I must say, is no fault of his own—not your fault at all, my Lord—has broken his finger."

Hearing this diagnosis, Winter's eyes travelled to Boromir's hands. One rested lazily on his thigh, but the other he held cradled towards his body. It didn't take a genius to note that the second finger on his left hand was horribly crooked and discoloured.

 _Well, he's a genius, this one._

"And I have forgotten the willowbark. Lady Faenil—ah, no, I must get it myself, for the Warden has fetched more just today, and you will not know where it is. Lady Faenil, it would be most helpful if you would begin to ascertain the damage to Lord Boromir's hand. Yes, good girl. I'll be back in a moment." And Ioreth was gone in a flurry of skirts.

As the door clicked behind her, Boromir sighed in sheer relief.

"Oh, but she is wearying," he chuckled, and Winter could not help but smile.

"Dangerous words to speak to her apprentice, my Lord."

Boromir merely twinkled at her. "Perhaps. I did not intend to come to her for treatment at all. You know how much I despise the Houses, Lady Faenil. Nay, my hope was to catch you and persuade you to bring my remedy to me, and avoid Ioreth's help entirely." He sighed. "As it is, I am caught, and I believed the best way to amend the situation was to request your presence also."

"Perhaps," Winter admitted, putting aside his gentle flirting and moving towards the surgery table. "Might I examine your finger, my Lord?"

Boromir frowned. "I had best do so myself, Lady Faenil. I am accustomed to treating such things on the field. It is not a bad break, I am sure."

"It would not hurt for a Healer to examine it," came Winter's pragmatic reply. She breathed. "Sevin dhâf maetha le, Lord Boromir?"

"Pi iestog," he smiled lazily. "But there really is no need, Lady Faenil."

 _Now Winter, as much as you might want to, breaking his other fingers will not help this situation._

Having given his permission for her touch, Boromir proffered his broken hand. Winter took it gently, cradling it from underneath so as not to disturb the broken finger. The warmth of his skin reminded her uncomfortably of their kiss at Tuilere, and she refused to meet his eyes.

"How did this happen, my Lord?"

Boromir rubbed his jaw with his other hand. "I was drilling with Aearon, a friend. He hit my hand with his blade." He paused. "Will you not allow me to pull it straight myself, my lady? All I came in search of was a remedy for the pain, though I think I could do without it to save myself from Ioreth."

"Perhaps you could," Winter smiled. Then she released him. She could feel his eyes on her forehead as she stood before him, touching his bare skin. Moving away, she pilfered a piece of paper and a quill from Ioreth's table. "Here. I shall show you."

Laying the paper on the table beside him, Winter began a rudimentary sketch of the structure of the hand. Boromir leaned over to observe her, his breath dusting her hair. After adding some very rough ligaments and veins, Winter stood straight.

"You see? It is obviously broken _here_ —" she pointed to the picture "—but we must ascertain several things. Is it a simple break, or have you displaced the bone? It looks to me as if the bones _here_ are not lined up."

Boromir frowned, glancing between Winter's rudimentary drawing and his own hand. "I see."

"Thus, pulling it, as you suggested, may not yield the best results. Ioreth knows more than I, but I would caution against rashness," Winter concluded, removing her drawing from the table and crumpling it up. "You could have damaged more than just the bone."

She glanced at Boromir's countenance. He seemed to be struggling with himself, as if he wanted to protest at her coddling.

 _Now there is a man who does not like to be gainsaid, or told he is wrong._

"And so I must wait for Ioreth?"

"Yes, my Lord," replied Winter, breezily. "I will not treat an injury such as this. I could count the bones in your hand, but I would not trust myself to align two halves of such a fine bone as a finger."

Boromir nodded, brows lowered slightly. He returned his hand to his lap. The finger was bruised black and had a decidedly odd shape.

 _All the better if Ioreth comes soon. I'd much rather be treating people on the ward than playing nursemaid for Boromir._

Before the Steward-prince could make any more teasing remarks, Ioreth herself returned to the room bearing an armload of supplies. Winter did her best to tune out the unnecessary parts of the Healer's soliloquy.

"Now, Lady Faenil. Have you examined him?"

"I believe it is a displaced break, Healer Ioreth. I have attempted no treatment."

Silent, for once, Ioreth deposited her bundle and moved towards Boromir. Taking up his hand without ceremony or permission, she prodded the finger gently. The Steward-prince met Winter's eyes over Ioreth's head, his gaze almost shouting for her to rescue him. Winter smiled with wicked sweetness. After her embarrassing fall on their walk, it was satisfying to have Boromir squirm instead.

Ioreth barked for several herbs and items, which Winter scurried to fetch. As she played nurse, Ioreth began a thorough examination of the break. She appeared to conclude much the same as Winter, that the bone had been displaced in the break and would need to be realigned.

"And splinted, mind you, so do not use it more than you can help, my Lord," chided the Healer, sorting through her supplies. She passed Boromir a wad of cloth. "To bite down on, my Lord," when he looked at her blankly. "For the pain."

The look Boromir sent Winter then was even more poisonous.

"Lady Faenil, ready yourself."

Winter moved obediently to Ioreth's side.

To her credit, the Gondorian Healer-woman was very skilful. Boromir's face hardened with pain as she performed her task.

Winter had thought watching Boromir discomfited would be grimly satisfying after all his teasing. She was wrong. The man had the pain tolerance of a gladiator. Still, it was obvious how much he abhorred having someone else tend to his injuries. What he could have done himself with a will of iron and gritted teeth, he was forced to endure at the hands of another. It was, perhaps, the truest glimpse into Boromir's character that Winter had seen yet. He was proud, fierce, a little obnoxious perhaps, and independent. The other things irked her, but the independence she understood.

She was surprisingly glad when Ioreth finished, in spite of the teasing she had received from him about falling headlong into a gully the day before.

"Prepare a splint, Lady Faenil."

Winter complied mutely. She held the wooden rods as Ioreth bound the finger straight. Finally, it was done, and Winter felt an unnatural sense of pity for Boromir.

 _Careful…_

 _Oh, don't stress. Give it 10 minutes, and he'll say something sexist and annoying, and I'll want to throttle him again._

"I must continue my rounds, for of course the Houses are most busy when it is least convenient. Forgive me, Lord Boromir, for my hasty departure, but I am sure Lady Faenil will see you out." She bestowed a motherly smile on Boromir, before turning to Winter. "Prepare a draught which will lessen the pain for him, Lady Faenil. I am certain you are capable of that. Oh, and make sure you tidy up after yourself."

Boromir was in such bad humour by this stage that he did not even make a wisecrack about Ioreth's departure.

Winter left him sitting grouchily on the bench and moved to prepare the painkiller for him. As she began work on the concoction, Boromir slipped off the bench.

"I will not need your remedies, Lady Faenil."

"This will just dull the pain, my L—"

"I said I do not require it."

Winter whirled around and stared at him in exasperation..

 _And you were worried you were starting to like him too much…_

"There are many things which are not required, and yet ease life's journey a good deal, Lord Boromir," she replied firmly. "I have been instructed to administer you a draught and, as you have given me no real reason why you should not take it, I am going to continue to do so. Here, Lord Boromir, we are not friends; you are my patient, and I am your Healer. Will you sit down, please?"

 _Slightly better than the last time you scolded him in the Houses, but that isn't really saying much._

 _Progress is progress._

Boromir blinked at her, his face hard with anger. "Perhaps you are my Healer, but I am the Steward-prince, Lady Faenil. Does that mean nothing?"

"No," Winter countered. "It means I shall ask you nicely to sit down, but I shall ask you all the same."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I shall think you foolish, and bid you farewell."

He snorted in wry laughter and moved towards the door.

 _Insufferable—_

Just as he reached the exit, her paused and turned to her.

"Might we be friends for a moment, Lady Faenil?"

 _Do friends tell friends they're being idiots?_

"As you wish, my Lord," came her stiff reply.

"I had hoped you might dine with my Father and I tomorrow evening."

Winter stared at him a moment, struggling to rein in her pique. He really was an aggravating human. It also riled her that he was so personal while she was working in the Houses. Having him make social requests while she was on duty, with goodness-knows-who eavesdropping, was unsettling—and likely improper.

"I am afraid I am engaged elsewhere, my Lord," she replied, truthfully. "Lady Eregnith has requested my company and I have already given my assent."

 _Thank goodness._

Annoyance flashed across his visage. He nodded begrudgingly. "I see. The following night, perhaps?"

Here, Winter did not have so ready an excuse. She chewed her lip, and eventually nodded. "Yes, if you wish it."

"I do."

She nodded again. "Very well." Placing her back to him, she began tidying Ioreth's workstation without a goodbye. She heard Boromir snort.

"I will send a litter for you, my Lady. Until then, farewell."

"Mm."

Hearing his heavy footsteps retreat was a welcome sound.

 _Stupid._

She put away jars and wiped surfaces with ruffled intensity. All sympathy for the Steward-prince had evaporated with his sour expression. He was, in many ways, a lumbering, childish bear.

 _You must admit, he's likeable in a lot of ways._

 _Yeah—when he's silent._

Winter smiled at this.

 _And now you just have to navigate dinner with Denethor. I wonder if he'll tear chicken from the bone with his bare hands, and squirt juice everywhere when he bites into a cherry tomato…_

 _Yeah,_ came a sarcastic response, _maybe he keeps a pet hobbit with him to sing songs at every meal._

 _Idiot._

 _You're welcome._

Grinning wryly, she put away the last of Ioreth's things and dusted off her hands.

 _And now—to the_ real _work._

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 **Sevin dhâf maetha le – May I touch you (bad grammar, I translated it myself)**

 **Pi iestog – if you wish (informal)**

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE**

 **Sorry for my long absence friends! I've just had 3 weeks in Europe, and while I am about to return back to Australia, I have been so busy with all of my doings I haven't had time to write! This chapter is not my most treasured piece of work, but all these bits and pieces needed to come together in order to set the scene for future things. I apologise for its bitsy-ness and the haphazard nature. Perhaps I will revise it. At any rate, thanks for your continued support of Winter, and I promise to be a more prolific ficcer in the next few weeks once I'm back in my home continent!**

 **I guess a lot of you have noticed some kind of significance with Winter receiving the fake One Ring from James, and if you did guess... well done. That thread of the story will crop up again soon. I won't hint any more though, for fear of spoilers!**

 **Thanks again for all of you who have been reviewing! It's been amazing to get your little notes of encouragement.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER QUESTION**

 **If you could ask any question of Boromir about his childhood, what would it be? (I promise to answer all of these based on my headcanon of Boromir in the next chapter!)**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: Dinner**

* * *

 _6_ _th_ _April, 3007_

"Ah, there you are, Lady Faenil," said Túiel, folding up some mending and placing it on a side-table.

Winter stepped inside her companion's sitting room and closed the door softly behind her.

She rarely had occasion to visit her companion's quarters; normally Túiel approached Winter in her own chambers, or the main part of the house. Today, however, the tables were turned. Crossing the carpet, Winter took one of Túiel's plain armchairs. The room was simpler than the rest of Lord Lossemen's manor, but artfully decorated nevertheless. The older woman had an eye for detail, and the room bespoke comfort and taste.

"Are you feeling better today, Túiel?"

The woman nodded, though her face was pale. "A good deal better, milady. I apologise that I have not been at your disposal the past few days."

Winter waved aside the protest with a graceful hand. "Nonsense. It is no fault of yours that you have been sick. Badhor and I have managed admirably, though we have missed you." She smiled slightly.

Túiel looked rather pleased in her stiff, severe way.

"Nevertheless, I deemed it necessary to speak to you before this evening. I trust Badhor has briefed you on the necessity of decorum?"

"He has," Winter replied, with a wry smile. "Thoroughly."

Her companion nodded slowly, pausing to cough painfully before continuing. "Perhaps you might outline the expected proceedings?"

Winter took a deep breath.

Tonight, she would go to dinner with Lord Boromir and Lord Denethor.

Were it not for Túiel's fragile appearance, Winter would have been tempted to vomit forth a flood of fears. As it was, she felt compelled to hold together her emotions for the sake of her companion. Túiel, recently ill, did not need to be disappointed by Winter's courage falling to pieces.

 _Keep your stuff together._

So she donned a mask borne out of long practice, one designed to deceive a mother but equally good for projecting confidence to her companion.

 _What would mum do if you were to—_

 _Again. Stop._

"I am to be picked up by the Steward's litter at the seventh hour after noon," she began, swallowing and wishing her hands weren't so sweaty. "I will be escorted to the seventh level, in company with Badhor, where I will be let out at the entrance to the King's House. There I shall be greeted by the Steward and the Steward-prince. I and the other guests will be taken to a hall, where we await the serving of dinner. Badhor will remain behind me at all times, to act as a personal servant and escort in some circumstances. As a guest of the Steward, I must await introduction by Lord Denethor before making conversation with the other guests."

Túiel nodded. "This is of utmost importance. The Steward, as the host, is responsible for social setting. He is as a composer in a symphony, arranging conversation and coupling those who attend him. The host rarely enjoys conversation of his or her own, for he or she must be attentive to those about them. He will direct you to those you should speak to, dictating discussion. The Steward is known for his political subtlety in dinner parties such as these, and as such you must be cautious, Lady Faenil."

"Badhor mentioned as much," Winter said, slowly. "He told me that Lord Denethor has been known to invite rivals and direct them in conversation, purely for his own amusement—or some end."

"Badhor is correct. You must be wary, pleasant, charming, and neutral. I trust you have revised your knowledge of the noblemen and women present in Minas Tirith?"

"Yep," Winter affirmed, her voice a little unsteady. She'd spent the previous evening running over her Exchange Program resources. Whilst she would rely on the Steward's introductions to meet people, it was imperative that she had a sound understanding of the political climate. A misstep in the Steward's presence could be fatal.

"That is well. You must keep conversation as general as possible, whilst following the Steward's guidance. He will undoubtedly prompt all conversation you have, but do not allow yourself to be baited into any dangerous topics."

Winter nodded again, her nerves growing at Túiel's serious instructions. She wished fervently Boromir had never asked her to dinner. Whilst such an invitation was not unheard of, it would certainly test the tentative beginnings of a casual friendship with the Steward-prince, suggesting more. It was a distinct mark of favour to be thus singled out—and, furthermore, would place Winter under the scrutiny of Lord Denethor himself.

If real-Denethor was anything like movie-Denethor, she knew she had good reason to be nervous. When Boromir had issued his casual invitation in the Houses two days before, Winter had accepted it with little thought. Her mind had been largely occupied with frustration at Boromir's stubbornness over his broken finger. Now, mere hours away, the implication was beginning to sink in. She almost wished Túiel was a little less sterile and had passed on her flu. Illness, it seemed, was the only way to wriggle out of dinner with the Steward's family. Unfortunately, that was not her lot, and she was about to endure a nerve-wracking evening. Badhor seemed largely unruffled by the whole matter, to Winter's surprise.

 _Apparently dinner with the Steward's fam doesn't call for Calaron's 'Lady Faenil Extraction Plan', sadly…_

"The placement of guests at dinner, too, will be a political matter," Túiel continued, after another rattling cough. "Lord Denethor does not have as much sway over dinnertime conversation, but you will find that his influence is still present. I need not brief you on your table manners, I suppose?" For the first time that afternoon, Winter's companion gave a hint of a smile.

"I think not," replied Winter, attempting to return the smile.

"You are aware of how you must respond to the Steward?"

"Always with 'My Lord Steward'. I must touch only his hands, and only if he proffers them. I must not speak directly to the Steward unless spoken to."

"What about standing order?"

"Below any military men and their partners ranked Captain or above; ahead of any Second-captains or lower. Above any men or women without noble rank, naturally. Below members of households occupying the primary holding of any province, such as the Prince of Dol Amroth and his family. Above any minor land-holders, and moving with discretion among other middle-land noblemen or women depending on income, influence with steward, and size of their property. And," Winter finished, ticking off categories in her mind, "any of these positions could be altered if the Steward indicates I am to partner another guest."

Túiel nodded. "Keep your wits about you and, if in doubt, move lower rather than higher. Modesty—even false modesty—is better than presumptuousness."

"'K."

Túiel gave her a stern look at such a casual reply, and Winter cleared her throat apologetically.

"Yes, Túiel."

"Better. Now—what gown have you chosen?"

"The pale grey silk with the lace."

Túiel hesitated, her face thoughtful. "Appropriate, I believe. With the dark green cloak and the green jewel set?"

Winter nodded, smiling slightly at her companion's adept guess. "Just what Aeglossel and I had planned."

"Aeglossel has excellent taste. A good girl, that," Túiel mused, her face lapsing into vague thought for a moment. Then she seemed to regather herself. "I think you are well enough equipped, Lady Faenil."

 _I wish I believed that myself._

 _How is everyone else so calm about this? I have to go and sit under the eagle eye of THE Denethor, crazy Denethor who tries to burn himself and his son alive, and Túiel's calmly checking on my table manners. Badhor is brushing up his nicest tunic ready to go out… Boromir I can deal with now, he's just a big arrogant bear. Denethor, though? A snake._

Túiel, with her characteristic astuteness, seemed to read something in Winter's gaze. She reached across and patted her charge's arm with a comforting hand.

"Do not distress yourself, Lady Faenil. Follow the Lord Steward's prompts and be polite. There is little that could truly go wrong unless you were to forget yourself entirely—and I am certain that will not happen. Really, my lady, you ought to have more faith in yourself!" She gave a tired smile. "We are all very proud of you, you know. I do not mind confessing you are a delightful mistress, and I have served many members of the Exchange Program in years gone by."

Winter swallowed hard, grateful for Túiel's sharp eyes and odd bursts of motherliness.

"Thank you, Túiel."

"Go now and start readying yourself. Aeglossel will fix your hair nicely, I am certain," Túiel said, in gentle dismissal. She took back up her mending as Winter rose from the chair.

"I'm sure she shall. Thank you for your advice." Feeling a little bolstered but still nervy, Winter crossed the carpet and prepared to leave the room.

"Lady Faenil?"

The latter paused on the threshold.

"Yes?"

Túiel met her eyes with a twinkle in spite of her otherwise haggard appearance.

"Enjoy yourself, milady. This is an opportunity afforded to few."

* * *

Boromir fastened the neck of his tunic with fumbling hands. He stood before an austere dressing table, his face fixed in a heavy frown.

"Confound it," he growled. As always, he found articles of finery oppressive. There was something unnerving about being unable to move his arms freely; it caused his neck to itch.

Today things were worse, for the second finger on his left hand was rendered useless by the splint and bandage which protected the recently-broken bone. The other day, Aearon's blade had cracked against his gloved hand. Protected by a layer of mail and heavy leather, the sword had not cut him, but the impact had still broken his finger.

 _And a fine nuisance it is too,_ he grumbled internally, struggling to finish his ablutions. _As if managing such finery as this wasn't hard enough, without contending with a splint! Praise the Valar it was my left hand and not my right, or else I should be in even greater trouble._

Still, it could not be helped. This evening was one occasion where a soft woollen garment made for daily wear would not suffice, even considering his broken hand. Instead, he found himself stuck in a rich black tunic, fine leggings and a pair of boots so stiff he wondered if he would manage to climb the stairs in them. Still scowling, he moved to a hook and pulled down a black embroidered surcoat which fell almost to his knees.

Fortunately there was some compensation for the pompous attire. Lady Faenil had agreed to dine at the King's House, along with Captain Aearon and several of his father's latest political conquests. The others he cared little for, but an evening with the witty red-haired lady and one of his closest friends was not to be scoffed at. Aearon was eager to meet Lady Faenil, and the latter's presence promised pleasure of its own. It would certainly be less boring than previous dinner parties Boromir had been forced to endure—even if he struggled to use the cutlery with his finger immobile.

After donning a belt and pulling back several pieces of hair behind his head with difficulty, Boromir gave his appearance a quick appraisal in the mirror. Easily satisfied, he moved across his chambers to his desk, intending to finish some paperwork before he was called away to the evening festivities.

Moments after he settled himself in his chair, someone rapped upon the door.

"Come."

The door opened to admit Faron, Boromir's personal manservant.

"My Lord," said Faron, bowing respectfully as he crossed the threshold.

"Faron?" Boromir questioned, bemused by the man's arrival. By all rights, his man should have been helping prepare for the dinner, as he would be acting as Boromir's personal attendant. It was remiss—and unusual—for him to abandon his post.

"Forgive me, my Lord, but there is a matter of import that I wished to bring before thee. I have finished my duties below, and thought to take this opportunity to speak with thee before the Lord Steward's guests arrived." Faron spoke with his usual prim calm. Still, having been served by the man since his thirteenth year, Boromir read his expressions adeptly.

"Speak, Faron, for it must be of some importance," the Steward-prince acknowledged, gruffly.

His man bowed again, grateful. "It concerns the Lady Faenil, my Lord."

Boromir frowned. "Is she not to attend this evening, Faron? Surely one of my Father's ordinary servants could have delivered such a message."

"No indeed, I have heard naught of her attendance this evening," the servant assured him. "It pertains to your outing of two afternoons ago."

The Steward-prince frowned again, utterly lost as to the direction of Faron's conversation. His patience, worn thin by his ablutions and the tightness of the surcoat on his shoulders, grated as his manservant gathered his thoughts.

"Speak, Faron," Boromir muttered.

Faron nodded deferentially. "The matter is this, my Lord. After Lady Faenil—ah, fell, whilst you were walking, myself and the other attendants followed thee along the path. By some chance, some twist of fate, I happened to glance at the place where the Lady had met her accident. Thereupon I noticed a glint of something bright upon the grass, and moved to uncover the object. I found this." Reaching into the pocket of his livery, Faron withdrew a golden ring upon a silver chain.

Boromir reached out and took it from his servant's hand, puzzled. "Why did you not present this to me immediately after we returned from the Pelennor, Faron? I ought to have returned it to Lady Faenil as soon as could be," he said, annoyance with the man rising.

Faron had the grace to look chastened. "Forgive me, my Lord. It was an error upon my part, and a grievous one. I pocketed the piece of jewellery, and such notions slipped my mind. My first desire was to pass it to thee before thy outing concluded. I only rediscovered it today, and realised my mistake. Thus, I intended to present the article to thee so that it could be returned to Lady Faenil this eve."

"Well it is done, Faron," said Boromir. He was beginning to grow exasperated. Faron was ordinarily so reliable. "Let us hope the lady is not displeased to have had the jewellery withheld for such an interlude. At least we may alleviate a measure of her distress, in returning it at last. You may go." He dismissed the servant curtly.

"Forgive me, my Lord—"

 _What could possibly—_

"Speak," he growled, reluctantly.

"When I made to bring the item to you, I noticed something peculiar." He hesitated, then hurried on as if nervous to raise Boromir's ire further. "It is not made of any substance that I am familiar with. Furthermore—observe the item, my Lord. It is inscribed with some form of Elvish script, and I recognise none of the words. I am a reasonable man, my Lord Boromir, and you know well my character. Somehow, in a manner I cannot explain, this item does not sit well with me, and I would urge you to inspect it ere you return it to Lady Faenil. I do not mean to cast undue suspicion—but I would beg caution in this instance, as unseemly as it may be for a manservant to ask of his Lord."

Boromir did not speak immediately. A flash of anger at Faron engulfed him first, and he allowed this to subside. Frustrated he might be, but he would not allow rage to dictate him. It might be Denethor's way, but even Faron's blunder did not warrant such a harsh display.

"I think you are overly-concerned, Faron," he informed him bluntly. "Thank you for returning the item. I will see Lady Faenil receives it."

For an instant, he wondered whether Faron would defy him by speaking again. The man's mouth worked silently, before he gave a curt bow.

"As you wish, my Lord."

"You may go."

"Yes, my Lord."

Faron withdrew, uncertainty written in every line of his back. Something about the servant's prevailing concern spoke to Boromir despite his pique. He picked up the ring on its chain and ran his eyes over it carelessly, turning it over in his right hand.

 _What can have unnerved Faron so?_ he pondered. Holding up the ring before him, he pressed it with his fingernail. _He speaks the truth about the substance, I suppose… it is nothing I have seen before… an odd metal, from Anfalas perhaps?_

Frowning, he squinted at the script written on the band. It was scratched and appeared poorly made, and he wondered if it truly even belonged to Lady Faenil. Such a peculiar article seemed an unlikely possession for a noblewoman. He had never noticed her to possess cheap baubles.

 _And yet if he found it where she fell…_

 _A present, perhaps, from her brother?_

That seemed likely. Lady Faenil was close to her brother, and the simple, scripted band seemed more suited to a man's hand than a lady's.

His thoughts turned to the script which flowed along the scratched gold surface. As Faron said, it was utterly unfamiliar to him. It used the traditional Elvish runes he had observed Faramir decipher, but the words were utterly foreign. To Boromir's utter astonishment, something quailed in his spirit as he ran his eyes lazily across the script. It was, as Faron had so peculiarly described, _unsettling_ —and rather frustrating to admit the manservant was right.

 _Nonsense,_ Boromir told himself, firmly. _Faron must be getting old indeed if a strange ring makes him quail so. It is nothing._

In spite of this confident mental assertion, Boromir found himself turning the ring over in his hands. He ought to return it to Lady Faenil over dinner. And yet—

 _Valar above, Faron could be right…_

Something was not entirely right, and Boromir's blunt soul wished he could isolate the feeling and crush it.

Firmly.

He glanced at the timepiece upon his bedroom wall, brow lowered into a scowl. There was a scarce half hour till he was required at his Father's side. Uncertain, he returned his gaze to the ring.

 _If only I could discern the text, I am certain all would make sense,_ he told himself. Thinking hard, his countenance suddenly lit up.

 _Faramir._

If any could decipher the peculiar script, it would be his brother. Drawing forth some parchment, Boromir snatched up a quill and ink.

* * *

 _Little brother—I am afraid I have a request for thee, and a most unusual one. I have stumbled upon some words in the Elvish Tengwar runes which I cannot read, and I must humble myself before thee and beg for thy assistance. Enlighten me, if you can, and send your reply with all speed. You shall not be surprised to know something which I do not, and I will gladly endure your lofty remarks when I next see you—Boromir._

* * *

Beneath this brief note, Boromir exerted himself to copy the Tengwar runes for his brother's perusal. After several mistakes and a great labour, he held back his handiwork to inspect it. He hoped that the runes were accurately traced, lest Faramir's attempt at translation be thwarted.

Glancing back at the timepiece, he realised he had a scant five minutes before he was required downstairs. Muttering under his breath, he blew frantically upon the note, haphazardly sealed it with wax, and fled his chambers.

Two minutes later he arrived downstairs. Lady Faenil's supposed trinket was tucked safely in a deep pocket, whilst the letter for Faramir weighed heavy in his right hand. Catching sight of Faron at the bottom of a staircase, Boromir beckoned him over. The manservant's visage was smooth and unruffled, his composure flawless after the obvious concern less than an hour before.

"For Faramir," Boromir stated, passing Faron the note. A flicker of confusion registered in the latter's eyes, but he merely nodded and tucked the letter away without comment.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Faron?"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"As soon as may be. Do not let this wait several days," Boromir said bluntly. Faron accepted the criticism meekly. Satisfied his man had understood the indirect censure, Boromir nodded gruffly. "Now—let us attend to dinner."

Striding ahead of his man, Boromir passed through a candlelit corridor and arrived in the entrance hall of the King's House.

Denethor was already present.

The Steward of Gondor seemed as comfortable in his heavy finery as his son was _un_ comfortable. Denethor stood tall and proud in the entrance hall, his imperious gaze falling upon Boromir as he entered.

"Boromir," he stated in greeting, hawkish grey eyes inspecting his son. Apparently he passed muster, for Denethor gave a curt nod. "I trust you are ready to entertain?"

"As ready as I may be, Father; you know such evenings are not my greatest pleasure."

"Does it not interest you, to observe the workings of the court?"

 _A loaded query._

"Very little," Boromir replied plaintively. He was in no mood for subtlety.

Denethor frowned heavily. "Then you had best amend such attitudes, for the guests arrive. Come."

 _Think of Aearon, and Lady Faenil._

Breathing to soothe his nerves, Boromir fell into step beside his father as Lord Denethor moved towards the entrance way. The latter swept across the marble floor with icy majesty, before halting a fathom from the threshold. Boromir positioned himself to his father's right and a little behind, eyes trained on the vast door to the King's House, and his injured left hand tucked behind his back.

First to arrive was a quiet, graven-faced young lord Boromir did not know, followed by a middle-aged couple he ought to have recognised but did not. As he went through the required motions, his thoughts turned to Faramir. Composing a note to his brother sent his attention winging across the Pelennor to the garrison in Osgiliath. He pondered wistfully on Faramir's present state, knowing full well his little brother was probably lounging about a campfire with several of the other officers. There would be laughter and loud talk, of love and war and simple things.

 _Not of cutlery and crockery and the state of the roads—save where it concerned the movement of troops. Ah, Faramir, may it be but a short while before I see thee again._

So absorbed was he in this train of thought that he was jolted back to reality by Captain Aearon's arrival.

The already-present guests—who now numbered seven—had been welcomed and ushered behind the Lord Steward to the back of the entrance hall. There they were being attended by their various servants, removing cloaks and composing themselves. Denethor had arranged that all of his guests would arrive in swift succession, to avoid the necessity of awkward lingering. Thus, it was really only several minutes between the first lord's arrival and Captain Aearon's appearance in the entranceway.

"Captain Aearon," intoned Denethor, smoothly. "Welcome."

"My Lord Steward, it is my pleasure to attend thee," the young man replied in smooth Sindarin, bowing with appropriate deference. His eyes then moved to Boromir, and a hint of a smile flickered in his eyes. "Captain-General Boromir."

"Captain Aearon."

Denethor's brow wrinkled in the faintest hint of displeasure. Boromir read his father's slight scowl with wary eyes.

Captain Aearon was well within his right to address Boromir as 'Captain-General'. However, all three men present were perfectly aware that it displeased the Steward. Denethor placed firm emphasis on Boromir's role as Steward-prince, whereas the latter considered his hard-won position as Captain-General the superior of the two. The young Captain had metaphorically placed himself at Boromir's feet, in opposition to the Steward, with his use of the military rank.

 _Dangerous, Aearon, as much as I value thee; dangerous._

Boromir allowed his friend a hint of a smile as Denethor ushered him in coolly. Equally amused and concerned for Aearon's political future, he was suddenly confronted with Lady Faenil's slim form as she entered next.

"My Lord Steward," she spoke, curtseying low before Denethor, her face tilted downwards.

"Lady Faenil of Anfalas," the Steward replied musingly.

Standing to one side, Boromir was afforded an excellent perspective of the interaction. Aearon might have condemned himself to a paltry political career through scorning Denethor's esteem, yet he hoped absently Lady Faenil would not do the same. For an inexplicable reason, he longed to influence his father's goodwill in her favour.

 _And yet why?_ he pondered, with a start. _Oh, you have flirted with her boldly enough, and she is a beautiful creature. But to wed her?_

He hesitated.

 _No. No, and with perfect truth, for as much as I admire the woman, I could not imagine taking her as wife._

This caused him some measure of unease, and he could almost hear Faramir reproaching him internally.

 _"_ _Brother! You court her, engaging her time and her attention, without any true intention of winning her? How could you act in such an unfeeling manner?"_

 _It is well he was not present at Tuilere, to observe the liberty I took…_

As this thought echoed through his mind, Lady Faenil rose from her curtsey. Her clear gaze was fixed upon his father's face, utterly serene. He watched as Denethor surveyed her, hawklike. He took in every aspect of the red-headed woman with a practiced eye. Boromir could half-imagine his father's thoughts during such an appraisal.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Faenil," Denethor said, at last, with a tiny nod.

"The pleasure is all mine," came Lady Faenil's response in Sindarin, demure and unhesitating.

Then she turned to him.

"My Lord Boromir."

"Lady Faenil."

A faint smile touched her mouth as she greeted him—and then was swept into the foyer with the rest of Denethor's guests, her manservant in tow. Moments later, Boromir found himself greeting another unknown lord, his thoughts far away.

Added to his feelings of—could it be remorse?—concerning his behaviour towards Lady Faenil was the heavy reminder of the ring which rested in his pocket. It baffled him.

 _Unnerving._

 _And whilst there is any uncertainty upon that point, I may safely reassert that I could never wed her,_ he told himself. _A pleasant companion, but my doubts over this peculiar ring render her… unsuitable. Even Faramir cannot find fault with this._

The thought was an ugly one, and yet true. Oh, perhaps the translation of the Elvish runes would lead to nothing.

 _Almost certainly they will!_

Still, he had not even begun to consider his father's perspective of Lady Faenil.

 _More and more difficulties arise as I dwell on it,_ he thought slowly, as Denethor turned back towards the waiting guests. _If the other things were not enough to prevent such a match—even were I to wish it—then politics certainly would._

That was true. Lady Faenil was of very respectable rank, but nothing remarkable enough for the Lord Steward to marry her off to one of his sons. Boromir knew of her father, Lord Lossemen, in name only, but one thing was certain: he was not talked of, for good or for ill. There was no reason to gossip over the Anfalas lord, for he was neither dominating nor embroiled in scandal. To Denethor, that would render Lossemen's daughter a pawn of little value—and utterly unsuitable as a prospective daughter-in-law.

Knowing that his father would not attempt to exploit Lady Faenil for his own ends was somewhat reassuring for Boromir, though it simultaneously rendered her an impossible bride. He genuinely admired the woman. She was beautiful and witty and, he suspected, knew far more than she let on about many things. He had made it his business to discover them, if possible, and found she led him on a merry dance. Best of all, she made no desperate attempts to cling to his attentions or manoeuvre herself politically. There was nothing poisonous or mercenary in her, and it was refreshing. He would not like to think of her as a puppet of his father's, even if it meant leaving her out of reach.

 _Do you think she would let him control her though, in truth?_

Glancing at her from over his father's shoulder, Boromir gave an internal chuckle.

 _Nay, I think not._

* * *

Winter struggled to resist the urge to scrunch up her sweaty hands in the skirt of her grey silk dress. Stepping inside the foyer of the King's House was about as cheering as entering a mausoleum. The cool marble floors and lofty ceilings reminded her of Rome—and echoed ominously with every step the guests took.

She had been one of the latest to arrive, greeted by Denethor and Boromir and then moving to join the already-present guests. One other man had arrived after her before the Steward and his son turned to face them once more.

Pausing before the group, Denethor smiled upon them in a lofty fashion.

"Shall we proceed?"

 _And somehow, that isn't a question._

His gaze drifted across the assembled group, before the Steward of Gondor turned towards a door leading out of the entrance hall.

Winter, standing amongst this odd cluster of people, felt her heart jolt in anticipation. She could sense Badhor hovering at her right hand, and she was profoundly grateful for her _byrath_ 's presence. He could not instruct her, but knowing he was there was somehow reassuring—it was all that had allowed her to hold her nerve and meet the iron-grey gaze of the Steward.

Now, however, she needed all her wits to figure out how to navigate this group of lords and ladies. It was customary for the nobility to proceed from room to room according to rank, meaning Winter had exactly 7 seconds to figure out where she was positioned compared to the other 11 people present.

She'd already given the group of people a lightning appraisal when she'd entered the room, and she was tentatively confident of her position amongst them. She recognised immediately Boromir's friend, the now-Captain Aearon; his handsome face was pleasant to survey, and rumour named him a charming man. There was one she recognised as Captain Tinnuon, the current Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, and Faramir's predecessor in that position. He was a grim figure with a salt-and-pepper beard, and she wondered at his presence; Denethor made no secret his disappointment in Faramir joining the company of Rangers.

 _Maybe he's realised the error of his ways and wants to make peace with his son's career choice,_ came a wry quip. She pressed her lips together in grim amusement.

 _Why is it that that seems unlikely?_

Behind Captain Tinnuon Winter caught sight of an older married couple whom she recognised from Tuilere. She racked her brain for their names, but could only recall that they had a mid-sized holding not far from Minas Tirith, and—if the rumours her friend Eregnith reported were true—were short of money.

 _Which puts me below Tinnuon and Aearon, but above Lord and Lady X,_ Winter mused. _Then there's Lord Tingon, the butt-kissing one Calaron used to joke about in our sessions, and his son… oh gosh, what's his name… oh well. They're ranked lower than my illustrious father… I think. Geez. Ok, then those… Lady Morwen and Lord Anwell? Definitely after them. Alrighty, here goes nothing._

The thoughts barely had time to gallop through Winter's mind before she stepped forward to take her place ahead of Lord Tingon. The smarmy-looking middle-aged man gave her a begrudging nod of respect as she took precedence, moving into a spot behind Captain Aearon.

 _I guess that means we_ both _know I'm ranked higher than him,_ she chuckled, feeling a measure of tension melt away. As she took her place and prepared to follow the others into the next room, she stole a fleeting look at Badhor. He met her gaze for an instant, quiet approval in his eyes.

 _And that's better news than when Howard told me they were selling Golden Gaytime ice cream in tubs._

Denethor strode out of the room with all the majesty of a king. Following, Winter schooled her face into an expression of nonchalance, surprisingly amused by the thought.

 _All the majesty of a king, huh. Well Mr. Irony, you certainly hit that one on the head._

She was not afforded much chance for mirth in the time that followed. Passing through a broad door, the guests were led down a corridor and to a large room on the left. Winter arched her brows at the magnificence of the room. It had a magnificent vaulted ceiling, with thick furs covering the marble floor and armchairs set out in a roughly circular shape. One wall was covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves—which were truly prodigious considering the height of the ceiling—whilst others were lined with statues, tapestries and paintings. It was very grand, and very _stiff_.

Denethor moved amidst the arrangement of chairs and seated himself on the largest with a flourish of his tunic. It was a throne-like article of furniture, and strategically placed so as to make him the focal point when all the other guests were seated around him.

"Make yourselves comfortable, please," he intoned, gesturing with his arms that they might sit. "Lord Anwell, perhaps you might sit by me."

The guests moved to take various chairs, and Winter found herself sitting between Captain Aearon and Lord Tingon. She settled herself on her chair cautiously, eyes flickering over the assembled group. Most of the party—save for Captain Tinnuon and Lady Morwen—wore expressions varying from uncomfortable to outright distressed, in the case of Lord Anwell.

 _So it begins._

Denethor surveyed the folk around him. Winter wanted to squirm under the weight of his review. He maintained this posture for a painfully long time, gathering the reins of power about himself as he extended the silence. Eventually he spoke.

"Captain Tinnuon, you have recently returned from the eastern shore of the river," Denethor remarked mildly, his gaze moving to the other man.

Tinnuon inclined his grey-speckled head.

"Yes, my Lord Steward."

Denethor gave a thin-lipped smile. "Perhaps you might enlighten the young Lord Celegon with an account of your recent campaigns."

 _Huh._

Tinnuon's face hardened slightly, but he managed a mechanical smile.

"Of course, my Lord."

 _So that's how it works._

Winter watched in something akin to disgust as Captain Tinnuon turned stiffly to Lord Tingon's son and began to make faltering small talk about the state of the Rangers in Ithilien. In pairing the two off, Denethor had jabbed the military man with a pointed insult. Lord Tingon was of little consequence, and his young son—who couldn't have been much older than Winter—was doubly so, without any military experience. Urging Captain Tinnuon to talk to the boy about his campaigns was a metaphorical slap in the face, emphasising how little regard Denethor had for the Rangers.

 _In spite of Faramir being one of them._

 _Still think that Tinnuon's presence here is a gesture of goodwill?_

Winter's stomach flip-flopped.

 _Well, Túiel was right. Denethor's wilier than a dingo with a bone._

 _And a veritable bastard to boot._

"Lord Tingon," continued the Steward smoothly, after he had watched Captain Tinnuon suffer for a moment. "Lady Faenil is but recently come to Minas Tirith from Anfalas, where her father, Lord Lossemen, has a very pleasant holding." Denethor's heavy gaze moved to Winter, and he gave a chilly smile. "I am certain she would appreciate hearing aught you have to tell of the _transportation of crops_ here in the east."

Lord Tingon inclined his head. "I would be delighted, my Lord Steward."

Winter exhaled, profoundly thankful that Denethor directed no insult at her or her father. She was unsure precisely what was wrong with Tingon's crops, but she was certain that Denethor's comment was likely a well-placed barb.

 _Ah well._

"It is a great pleasure to meet thee, Lady Faenil."

Winter swivelled slightly in her chair to face Lord Tingon.

"It is a pleasure for me also, Lord Tingon," she replied in Sindarin, mustering up her sweetest—and most restrained, Gondorian—smile.

"You are from Anfalas, the Lord Steward informs me."

"Indeed. My father's lands are on the southern side of Pinnath Galen."

Tingon nodded musingly. "A beautiful land, milady."

"I believe so," Winter agreed. _Oh goodness let him speak English again. My Sindarin is way too rusty for this._ "Where are your lands, Lord Tingon?"

"My holdings are in Losanarch, milady. I am oft to be found in Minas Tirith, or journeying hence, as it is no great distance. I suppose this is thy first time in our great stronghold on the Pelennor?"

"Yes," she affirmed, smiling again.

"And you find it agreeable?"

"Certainly."

Tingon nodded, a weary smile upon his countenance. He seemed to Winter to be a cowed sort of man, one used to bowing and scraping for the attention of his betters. He did not have an unpleasant face— _though I swear I am yet to meet an ugly Gondorian_ —but he wore a perpetual look of mild anxiety, his eyes darting about with an animal-like desire to please. Still, he spoke softly and kindly, and Winter caught no hint of malice in his speech. Denethor could have demanded she talk with many more disagreeable people.

As Tingon sat in silence for a moment, Winter allowed her gaze to stray to the Steward himself. He was sitting like a gleeful sentinel, tall and proud in his chair. His grey-flecked hair was swept back from his brow and his eyes glittered with intensity. As he surveyed his gathering in smug satisfaction, his attention fell to Winter.

For a moment they stared at one another.

 _Look away, look away, look away..._

Winter blinked.

Denethor's mouth tilted upwards on one side, reading her face with uncanny skill. She knew he saw her apprehension and delighted in her discomfort.

 _Man I hate him._

As she felt the skin-crawling weight of his appraisal, her dislike of him mounted. He was a spider, appearing motionless whilst tugging the threads of his web with practiced hands. He was manipulative, conniving, deceitful. Winter knew that she was not blameless when it came to lies and deception— _isn't this whole trip a lie?_ —but seeing Denethor's enjoyment in those things was sickening. This wasn't a white lie— _"Yes, Howard, I'm fine, Mum just... I mean... never mind."_ —or even a lie to protect the Arda Exchange Program.

 _You're splitting hairs there..._

Denethor had built himself a _nest_ , a spider's lair, like a human Shelob.

 _He might rule Gondor as the Steward, but he's half the man Faramir's going to be. Less. Heck, he's not even as much of a man as Boromir, and that one can be a bit of a pain in the butt at times. Wait... Boromir... he doesn't really even get a chance to prove himself does he, he's going to die... why... no this isn't the time. Anyway, there's the difference. Boromir blunders about, headstrong and a little rude at times, but blunt—goodness, I hope he makes it. But Denethor is..._

 _Like the Queen Bee bitchy girl in every high school, that rules the roost and favours or insults the other girls purely as a power play?_

 _...well that's not quite what I was going for, but yeah I guess._

He was still watching her. Was that a hint of puzzlement?

 _Screw it. You're about as pleasant as that baby cactus Alicia used to keep on her desk at college. Spiky and way more dangerous than you first appear. You're the kind of person that I was always butting heads with at school, because you're a tool for zero reason. You're what got me into fights and in detention: nasty for the heck of it. You insult people like Lord Tingon and Captain Tinnuon to prove your dominance. I may not be a great person, but there's a special place in hell for you. You are poisonous._

Drawing back from her thoughts, Winter refocused on Denethor's face. Though it had been half a minute, he continued to study her. Pulling her features back to an expression of implacable calm, she carefully reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

All the while, her eyes bored back into his, their ferocity amplified in contrast to the dainty smile which tugged at her mouth.

The Steward quirked an eyebrow slightly, as if amused by her silent defiance. Then he broke away from the eye contact, turning to study Lord Anwell to his left.

Businesslike, Winter returned to Lord Tingon's company.

"Now, my Lord," she said, gracing him with a smile which reached all the way to her eyes. "Many crops are grown in Anfalas, but I suppose they are vastly different to those you produce in Losanarch. I should very much like to hear from you what the cultivation and transportation of such crops entails, for I am fearfully ignorant."

Lord Tingon gave a weak smile, but accepted the olive branch. "Then I shall oblige you, Lady Faenil."

* * *

Boromir shifted in his seat. His broken hand rested awkwardly upon his thigh. The splint which Lady Faenil had applied prevented him from fiddling with his fingers—as he was wont to do in uncomfortable and boring situations.

"There is no need to appear so gloomy, my friend," Aearon reproached quietly, from his right. "Why," he continued, grinning, "I am here. Is that not enough for thee?"

Boromir gave the Captain a wry look out of the corner of his eye.

"You are enough to busy ten men with your wit—or lack thereof, as I suppose is more accurate."

Aearon concealed a broad smile beneath his hand, eyes flickering subconsciously to the man on Boromir's right. Denethor's attention might be directed elsewhere at present, but the Steward was no fool.

 _Nor would he approve of Aearon's jesting,_ Boromir thought, wearily. _And yet I still held hopes that an evening in the company of a friend could be pleasant. Alas! that such joys are suspended by propriety._

As the thought passed through Boromir's mind, his father's eyes slipped past him, hovering upon him with brief warmth before moving on to survey the rest of the gathering.

"I will agree that in matters of wit I am lacking," murmured Aearon, as Denethor's gaze moved to others. "Still, I have never known you to scorn me so! Perhaps you would rather be in another's company?" The teasing tilt of Aearon's dark brows were enough for Boromir to catch the reference to Lady Faenil—and ignore it.

"Certainly not, friend," he replied easily, leaning back a little in his chair. He gave the barest shrug. "You know this is my least favourite part of the evening."

Aearon acknowledge the fact, inclining his head with a smirk. "Of course. There is no food."

"Naturally."

The Captain seemed to accept the excuse with some grace. Still, Boromir wished Aearon was a little more cautious. He was himself hardly a subtle being, but Aearon seemed to possess no qualms about defying the prudent. After Boromir had spoken, Aearon had shifted ever so slightly in his chair so that he might peek at Lady Faenil. She, for her part, seemed engrossed in a conversation with Lord Tingon, happily unaware of Aearon's interest.

 _Incorrigible. Always._

 _And why should you care? Aearon would be far better placed to marry Lady Faenil than you are. Can you condemn his curiosity?_

 _Hmph._

Glancing the opposite way, Boromir scanned the group.

 _What does my Father see in this?_ he wondered. Most of the people looked dull and lifeless. Aside from chatting freely with Aearon, Boromir would also have gladly swapped places with Tingon's wormy son. He longed for news of Faramir, and conversing with Captain Tinnuon would have consoled him. Lady Faenil rounded out his small circle of interest.

He slowly ran his eyes across the other half of the circle, passing the familiar faces and coming to rest upon a golden head on the far side of his father. Lord Anwell.

He had barely met the young lord, for he was not even Gondorian. Lady Morwen, his wife, was a highly influential and rich heiress and reportedly a half-score years Anwell's senior. Morwen had scorned every suitor to be found in Gondor, before eventually disappearing for some months in the Riddermark and coming back with a young, fair-faced husband. Boromir was briefly puzzled why his father had requested Anwell sit at his left—and then subsequently ignored him—before his attention drifted.

* * *

Despite her sympathy for Lord Tingon, Winter was profoundly relieved when Denethor cleared his throat and announced dinner was served.

Tingon smiled at her somewhat wearily.

"I am grateful for thy company, Lady Faenil."

"And I for yours, Lord Tingon," Winter returned, concluding their conversation as they both rose to their feet.

Her anger at Denethor had simmered down somewhat whilst she had conversed with Lord Tingon. However, as she smoothed her skirt, her spirit floundered. She was no longer angry; she merely had no enthusiasm for what she knew the rest of the evening would entail. At the head of the procession, Boromir stood beside his father. Denethor was fiddling with some part of his attire and addressing a servant as the rest of the group gathered themselves. Badhor had moved to stand at her left and slightly behind.

She blinked.

 _What's with me tonight?_

"Pardon me, milady, but I do not think we have been introduced."

Winter blinked again out of sheer surprise.

"No, I am afraid we have not," she murmured, shocked, as Captain Aearon turned to face her with a lop-sided smile.

"I know thee by name, Lady Faenil, and thus it merely remains to introduce myself. I am Captain Aearon."

She looked at Badhor. She turned over her left shoulder and stared at her _byrath_ for a full second, flabbergasted. Her eyes beseeched him: _"He's not supposed to just introduce himself. Why did he introduce himself?"_

Badhor sent her a steely look.

 _Oh. Right._

Winter turned back to Aearon, her state of fluster increased by her own misstep in seeking the guidance of her servant in public. Fortunately, Aearon seemed to draw a different conflusion. Instead, he favoured her with a sheepish grin.

"I do apologise, milady, if I appear over-bold in making an introduction. Pray, do not request your servant to remove me," he continued, grey eyes light, "I have no ill intent."

 _He's a cad!_

Winter's mouth worked wordlessly for a second—which seemed to amuse Aearon even more than the blush on her cheeks—before she concocted a reply.

"It is of little import, Captain. And it is also a pleasure to meet thee."

Aearon smiled again— _is that all he does?_ —and glanced about, noting that Denethor was beginning to lead the way to the meal.

"Would you allow me to escort you to dinner, Lady Faenil?" As he spoke, Aearon proffered his arm.

Winter swallowed hard, eyes flickering unconsciously to Denethor's retreating back and imagining his reaction. She grasped in vain for an excuse. Part of her knew she ought to spurn him as punishment for his boldness. The other half thought such a response was cruel, especially considering his manner would have been perceived as appropriately friendly back on Earth. Her mind was so busy warring over these two parts that she scrambled fruitlessly for a way out and promptly gave up.

"Certainly, Captain Aearon."

 _Dammit, and dammit again. Aearon, you may have just usurped Boromir for the position of most irritating man in Middle-earth._

Aearon gave her a winning smile as they fell into step beside one another, her hand resting lightly near his elbow. He had no attendant, so Badhor walked directly behind them both. Winter cringed at the thought of what he would say at such a predicament. She also felt decidedly uncomfortable with her hand on the fabric of Aearon's sleeve, ashamed of her spineless inability to handle the situation and put the man in his place. The altruistic part of her that thought him friendly and open was thoroughly smothered by the triumphant glint she'd read in Aearon's gaze.

Fortunately for Winter, the brevity of the walk from the sitting room to the dining room afforded them no chance for conversation. Moments later they had crossed the corridor through which they had first come and passed into an equally impressive dining room. The table, which would comfortably hold the dozen guests, was a lonely island in the centre of the chamber, utterly dwarfed by the distance of walls and ceiling.

As they neared the table, Boromir paused and turned, his eyes moving along the line of people. The immediately fixed upon Aearon, before widening slightly as they reached Winter herself.

 _You're not the only surprised one, Boromir._

She immediately withdrew her hand from Aearon's arm, face slightly warm at her own stupidity. Boromir glanced back at his friend. Winter's eyes also moved to Aearon, who was returning Boromir's look with a triumphant, roguish grin.

 _Ah. So that's why he asked._

Rather disgusted with Aearon's silent taunt, Winter frowned. She edged herself a little further from his side as the group began to mill about the table. It was adorned with place settings, and she began to scan the elegantly-lettered cards for her name. For a full minute she stared at them, wondering why none was marked for her.

 _Faenil, you idiot. Not Winter._

 _Oh goodness, this is just getting progressively more embarrassing._

Realising her name was right beneath her nose, Winter hurriedly took her chair. Aeglossel had arranged her hair so the bottom half tumbled over her shoulders; as she leaned forward, it screened her blushing face from view, for which she was profoundly grateful.

As she settled herself, she groaned internally.

 _Boromir can be a pain, yet I see him dressed up like that with his gorgeous jaw and eyes and those shoulder muscles and I'm despicably weak. And also, in spite of his ability to frustrate me, seeing Aearon tease him about me is equally galling. I am eagerly anticipating the day Faramir becomes Steward of Gondor, because that'll get rid of Denethor... but that means Boromir's dead, and somehow that makes me feel sad._

 _Add to that the fact that you're not only invested in Boromir's life, but also head over heels for Lachie Howes, and you've got a gorgeous mess. Nice one, Win._

 _Ahhhhhhhh._

She plunged those thoughts to the back of her mind, dismayed by all her tumultuous feelings. Caught between apathy and a longing for distraction, Winter glanced around the table.

She was seated towards the bottom of the table with Lord Tingon to her right and—regrettably—Captain Aearon to her left. Lord Denethor, as was appropriate, occupied the head, whilst his son faced him at the foot. Glancing directly across from her place, Winter spied the smooth visage of Lady Morwen, feeling a flicker of regret she wouldn't have a chance to speak to the woman. Her eyes continued to dance across the party before coming to join with Boromir's.

Despite her frequent irritation with the man, his gaze was a refuge in that moment. Against her best efforts she sent him an entreating look. He returned it with understanding, half his mouth upturned. His injured left hand, still wearing the splint she'd applied, shifted in an involuntary kind of shrug.

 _There are moments when it's fun and kind of flattering to be regular chill buddies with Boromir,_ Winter mused, as the former's eyes moved onwards. _But geez, man, feel free to never invite me over again. Going walking or riding is very different to walking a tightrope at your dad's dinner party._

As her own gaze progressed, it fell upon Aearon. He was equally handsome, and far less agreeable. Just as she was heartily longing to slap the roguish half-smile off his face, Denethor commanded their attention once more.

 _And,_ she thought, with gritted teeth, _if I'm out of here before ten o'clock I'll be mighty shocked._

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE**

 **Good afternoon!**

 **Well, first of all, I believe an apology is in order. I promised Chapter 16 far sooner than it arrived. I have plenty of excellent excuses: wrapping up my month in Europe, preparing for university, working in pastoral care at a college during O-week, and now finally arriving in Week 2 of my own educational semester. However, despite justifying it to myself a dozen times since I last posted, I've felt horribly guilty. Hence we have this, a long overdue chapter of the epistle of Winter's journey in Middle-earth.**

 **At any rate, please except my humble apologies and know that I've berated myself plenty for the inconsistency, and hopefully the writing will flow more smoothly in future.**

 **With regards to this chapter... to me it still feels a little hodge-podgy, as I set the scene for what is to come.**

 **What I mainly wanted to do was a) set that particular scene, and b) develop Winter and Boromir's characters more, as individuals and in their relationship with one another. I wanted to try and portray how Winter really felt about this kind of political manoeuvring, and how that's different to Boromir's (despite Boromir's similar level of disinterest). They're different people.**

 **I also wanted a realist take on their relationship. Because, let's be honest... in gorgeous fanfic world Boromir would put aside the difficulties of marrying someone of significantly less stature and all would be well. Winter would defy the program utterly and they'd be wed and overcome any obstacles. There'd be angst when he found out her origins and then there'd be a few steamy scenes before I'd wrap it up. Yeah. Huh. Unfortunately, though the entire realm of fanfic is speculatory, that takes it a little far even for me. The characters have to act semi-realistic to satisfy me as their author-parent. I'm especially strict towards Tolkien's own children that I'm just playing with. They've got to behave! xD**

 **I'm not saying there isn't stuff ahead that's going to be adventurous and unlikely, but it won't be with regard to shipping unlikely fanfic pairings. Part of me ships Boromir and Winter SO DAMN HARD but I think I've already made it clear in other authors' notes that it's not where the story is heading. Either way, I still think you'll be surprised by the whole thing. :P**

 **Please leave a review if you can, I absolutely ADORE getting them. They make me so happy to hear your thoughts, speculations and opinions.**

 **I won't promise to upload the next chapter in 48 hours, but I will endeavour to be more punctual in future.**

 **Love you all and hope you enjoyed this. xx**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17 - Traitor**

* * *

Winter stumbled up the short flight of stairs, weary feet catching on the lip of the marble treads.

"Careful, milady," cautioned Badhor, his hand steadying her elbow as he moved in behind her. "A fall would do you no good after such a pleasant evening."

Winter nodded in mute assent, allowing her _byrath_ to help her. Moments later, the front door was flung open and a pool of lamplight settled on them both.

"Ah! You are back, and in good time," smiled Túiel, eyes moving from Badhor to Winter. Her brow creased slightly as she looked at the latter. "Come in, come in. Is all well?" she asked swiftly, as Badhor closed the door behind him and rubbed his brow.

Winter stared absently at the carpet.

She knew she ought to reply to Túiel. Replying was polite. People ought to reply. It was proper.

Yet no reply came.

Truth be told, her brain felt like a hurricane of facts, information and images; all of the subtleties which had been taught her at Caoloth had been uprooted by a gust of wind and sent whirling around her mind. Her glazed eyes saw nothing but the movements of Denethor's hands, the calculation in his gaze; the way in which Lady Morwen expressed respect towards Captain Tinnuon by the barest tilt of her head, or Lord Tingon's silent caution in the way he accepted dishes—were they laughing at him or did he imagine it?

She hated it.

Hate was a strong word, but, she felt, a suitably employed word in this instance.

As uncertain as she'd been at times over the past few weeks, she quite enjoyed the political dance with Boromir; the unspoken yet tentative friendship which had begun to blossom with the Steward-prince. Dining with his father was another matter entirely.

Winter had been caught up in the swell of politics, dragged off her feet by the enormity of the situation. It was like getting caught in the "washing machine" of the breaking waves on the Sunshine Coast; exhilarating and disorienting until you could find the sky again, bursting breathless from the foam and none too eager to repeat the experience.

 _There's civility and customs and subtleties... and then there's this, where anything could really mean_ anything _._

That was it. There was no true rulebook.

The evening had left her mind in uproar. She was wired, her brain made jittery by the magnitude of the information she was attempting to process. Her thoughts were roaring by like rumbling motorcycles, yet all contained within a helpless sphere of apathy and disdain. Everything was geared up to full speed, and yet she could not imagine anything worse.

It took Winter a moment longer to realise that she'd been staring at the carpet for some time, whilst Badhor and Túiel eyed her with concern.

"Are you well, milady?" Túiel inquired, moving towards Winter and grabbing her by the shoulders as if to secure her.

"Yeah, yeah, fine," Winter stammered, rubbing one eye. "Just overwhelmed."

"Did aught go wrong?" Túiel demanded anxiously, looking between the girl and Badhor.

The _byrath_ chuckled dryly and moved further into the entrance hall, apparently satisfied that Winter had her wits.

"Hardly, Túiel. Captain Aearon was bolder than usual, though Lady Faenil managed him with graciousness that still managed to be discouraging of further advances. Lord Boromir seemed grateful for her company, but did not seem affected by such a lovely lady's presence, whilst Lord Denethor was up to his usual snake-like tricks."

"He's _awful_ ," Winter muttered, vehemently. That much she could separate from her muddled thoughts. She met Túiel's eyes, brow puckered. "Awful."

Winter had never seen Túiel look so scandalized.

"Lady Faenil! One must not speak of such things." She turned to Badhor in horror. "And you as well, Badhor, to set such an example! 'Tis treason!"

Badhor gave a grim smile. "You have not observed him in such a manner, dearest Túiel; he made a fine example of himself this evening. Few were impressed by these machinations, and I am relieved to hear Lady Faenil is not among them."

"Nope," Winter muttered, frowning again.

"Hmph," came Túiel's only reply, heavily disapproving. "Well come, at least, and we shall get you out of this finery. It is nigh on midnight, and time for rest, your ladyship."

Túiel shifted her grip on Winter's shoulders, one arm slipping around her waist to guide her upstairs.

 _She's more like a mother than a servant these days..._

"Where's Aeglossel?"

"Abed," replied Túiel. "She must be fresh and ready to coax you awake on the morrow; I deemed it wise that she turned in early."

"Mm." _Smart. See, Túiel's smart. Really, Winter, you should be the one managing things like this as the mistress of the house. But no, you're a hopeless almost-twenty-three-year-old who has to be dragged off to bed. Being mothered._

 _"_ _Winter, you will not be an adult until you act like one," Ada snapped. "If you just—"_

 _No no no, stop._

 _"—_ _tried a little harder—"_

 _Not tonight. I can't._

 _"—_ _perhaps you might do better—"_

 _Uh._

She pressed her forehead with one hand. Thoughts were screaming and echoing off the surfaces of her consciousness like rubber bouncy balls. Winter noted Túiel's sideways glances, evidently trying to establish precisely what was wrong with her Exchange Program charge.

 _You tell me, Túiel,_ thought Winter, grimly. _You tell me._

Within moments, Túiel had whisked her up the curved staircase and to her apartments. Winter sighed. Her footfalls were heavy and languid upon the carpet as she moved to the wardrobe. Túiel removed her cloak with firm hands whilst Winter turned to the buttons and fastenings beneath the arm of her gown. Her fingers slipped restlessly over the fabric.

With a snort of annoyance, Túiel batted her useless hand away and proceeded to remove the grey silken gown with utilitarian efficiency.

"Sorry," muttered Winter, shoulders slumping a little.

Tùiel hesitated a moment. She resumed her duties with increased gentleness.

"You did not enjoy yourself, milady?"

Winter scratched her nose.

"Not particularly."

"Ah."

Beat.

"Ugh," she muttered, brushing back her long red hair impatiently. "I just feel rubbish. I can hardly think straight."

"Mm."

"I know I ought to be grateful, and think back on how lovely it was, and look upon it as a magical opportunity to mingle with Gondor's finest... but it was just plain _disgusting._ "

"Uh-huh."

Winter paused a moment, surveying Túiel with a raised eyebrow. Her companion remained fixated on the grey gown's fastenings as she punctuated Winter's rant with monosyllables. Undeterred, Winter continued.

"Denethor is awful. I know I oughtn't say that, but he really was. It was like he _enjoyed_ watching everyone squirm. Goodness me, I'll never have a bad word for Boromir again after that experience! He's one hundred times better than his father. A thousand. He's _kind_ at least, if a little arrogant and self-centred. And irritating. He's at least not out to make people feel awful and play them against one another." Winter tossed her head impatiently. "Denethor brought in Captain Tinnuon, of the Rangers of Ithilien—Faramir's superior—and positively _humiliated_ him."

"I see."

Another loaded pause.

"C'mon Túiel, say _something_."

Túiel, surprisingly calm, glanced up at Winter quizzically. "What might I say, milady, that is proper and does not compromise my loyalty to the Steward?"

Winter's mouth worked like a fish for a moment.

"You see?" Túiel prodded.

"Screw loyalty to the Steward."

The look Túiel gave her then was sharp. "I beg your pardon, Lady Faenil!" she snapped.

Winter quailed beneath that look. She often fell back in defeat after such outbursts of temper, and felt hotly ashamed of the fact. She was a spineless hot-head; angry one moment and utterly chastened the next, without the grace to stay calm or the determination to remain angry in the face of a scolding.

 _And plenty of those you've had from your M—_

Túiel must've read the apology upon Winter's face, for she reached up to brush her cheek. Her eyes noted contrition and work-worn fingers spoke back to it in soothing tones.

"Come along, milady. You had best retire."

Winter stared blindly at the timber doors of the wardrobe as Túiel finished removing her gown and helped her into a nightdress. Her mind was tightly walled off. Her consciousness was huddled like a ball within her chest, arms wrapped tight around itself as if to defend against the onslaught beyond. Doubts assailed her. Why was she there? Why? What had possessed her to apply for the Program anyway? Why did she always feel so impossibly trapped in the swamp of her own mistakes?

There was a logical answer to each of these queries. Winter could almost see them through the internal haze, just beyond her heart's reach. She had applied for some reason... hadn't she?

 _Yes, yes. I did. I think. Wait. Yes._

Yes. She had.

Yet still she could not quite grasp these logical facts. They were there, certainly, but she could not help but feel that if she uncoiled herself to reach for them she might fall apart entirely. And so she remained, curled up within herself, longing to put an end to the internal chaos but knowing if she attempted it she'd be plucked up like a leaf in the wind.

Blinking, Winter realized that Túiel had already chivvied her into bed. Her companion pulled up the coverlets and stepped back stiffly.

"Might I retire now, milady?"

"Yes, Túiel."

Her companion gave a slight curtsey and slipped out with a sympathetic look. In spite of everything, Winter felt a pang of annoyance that Túiel offered no parting words of advice or consolation. Her companion was strict yet generous, brisk but also kind. The swift retreat caused Winter to press her lips together sulkily. It was unlike Túiel—generally so full of cautionary tales—to be close-mouthed.

 _Why does everyone fail me when I need them?_ came the childish gripe.

 _That's not tr—_

She drowned the second voice out.

 _Even Túiel doesn't really care. She probably thinks I'm being juvenile and annoying._

 _You are._

 _Hmph._

For a few minutes Winter lay in her bed in the darkness, consciously trying to relax the muscles in her body. As her physical tension unwound, her mind began to calm marginally.

 _So what do we do?_

 _Sleep._ The first rational notion she'd had in hours.

 _Well, you know what they say about computers; "if it's not working, turn it off and back on again."_

 _Fair point._

* * *

 _7_ _th_ _April, 3007_

The wind plucked at Boromir's tunic in hefty gusts. Leaning forward upon the low stone wall which encircled the seventh level of the city, he breathed deep.

Air.

Fresh, spring-like; winter was finally beginning to relinquish its toothy grip on the land as the warm days began to outnumber the cool. The Pelennor was growing progressively more lovely as the season waxed.

In spite of this, Boromir's eyes slipped across the fields with little interest. His iron-grey gaze immediately sought the land beyond, pursuing the line of the Anduin and the grey lump that was Osgiliath. Therein lay his heart, and he separated from it.

During his unusually long sojourn in Minas Tirith, Boromir's thoughts had often winged across the grassy land to the army— _his army._ They were his men, many miles distant, bearing the mantle of duty and willingly plunging into the fray behind their captains. Boromir's heart swelled with pride whenever he thought of those men, their eyes bright beneath the glittering helms and their laughter coming readily despite hardship.

Today, his longing to return to the front was almost unbearable. Aearon had departed for his company early that morning, having already outstayed his fortnight's leave by nearly a week. After farewelling his friend, Boromir had begun the miserable task of assessing the Quartermaster-General's reports on the standing army's resources. Boromir's head for figures was above average, but the task still required several hours and left him irritable to the point that he snapped a quill clean in half before he finished. Grim-faced, he had silently determined to do no more administration that day.

A quarter of an hour later, he was to be found looking out over the city and lands, marginally less grumpy but still as eager to abandon his post as ever.

 _Only now do I understand how the savage animal must feel when it is constrained. It is nigh on unbearable. This was not why I became Captain-General._

He rubbed the lower half of his face with his right hand, whilst staring dolefully at the splint upon his left.

 _Nor does that improve my mood,_ he growled internally, seized with a sudden desire to pull off the splint and toss it down onto the sixth level. Only the thought of Lady Faenil's wry glance kept him from doing so; she would most likely ignore him for days if he demonstrated that kind of idiocy. With Aearon gone, he had no desire to alienate the lady-turned-Healer; the splint remained.

Boromir's thoughts drifted from Lady Faenil to his Father's gathering the previous night. It had been as lifeless and uninteresting as he had foreseen. He had largely spent his time staring at the opposite wall and absently pondering Lady Faenil's ring. The most engaging part of the evening had been Aearon's antics; Boromir's annoyance with his friend rarely lasted long, but it had certainly been roused on more than one occasion. Seeing Aearon flirting so pointedly with Lady Faenil had given Boromir cause for concern—and jealousy, he admitted, in spite of having reflected he could not marry the woman himself. Still, he would not willingly see her paired with Aearon. The pettiness of that acknowledgement made him uneasy, but he shoved the thought away.

 _Perhaps it is merely that they are too similar, that Lady Faenil's wit should clash with Aearon's, or that she would not endure his teasing with her quick temper._

Yes, that was most probably it.

At any rate, Boromir's irritation with Aearon had faded by the morning—ably assisted by the fact that he would soon be far from Lady Faenil—and he had wished him well without malice. His spirits had immediately plummeted with his emergence in paperwork, and all other feelings been put aside as he was overcome by frustration. He had even forgotten his confusion about Lady Faenil's strange trinket.

So deep in thought was Boromir at that moment that he did not hear the footsteps approaching him until they were very close.

"My Lord Boromir?"

Boromir whirled on the spot, unnerved by his own lack of awareness.

"Ah, Faron," he said, nodding to his man. The latter gave a stiff bow, before proffering an envelope toward him.

"A missive, my Lord, from Lord Faramir. I sent your letter late last evening, and the rider has just returned." Faron met his gaze placidly, yet Boromir saw deep within his eyes a fiery surge of interest. His servant was as eager as he to know what the envelop contained.

Boromir took the parchment with a slight smile, turning it over swiftly and breaking the seal.

 _At least, perhaps, one matter may be settled; let this put an end to any doubt about Lady Faenil's jewellery, for I have no doubt that is what Faramir writes concerning._

He unfolded the sealed sheet with eager hands. It was a small piece of paper, marked with Faramir's stamp, and containing a message even shorter than the first communication between the brothers. Boromir's heart soared as he began to read.

* * *

 _Boromir—_

 _I cannot contain my thoughts upon this matter to a page. Captain Tinnuon arrived this morn and has given me permission to return to Minas Tirith with all speed to take counsel with thee. This is, I believe, a matter of paramount importance. I shall be with thee for a late supper. Yours, Faramir._

* * *

Boromir gave a wry, lop-sided grin at this. The expression faded as he reread the note, delight turning into suspicion and doubt. The letter was written in a hurried scrawl uncharacteristic of his generally-careful brother, as if the matter was indeed so urgent he had scarcely been able to compose with appropriate speed.

 _..."paramount importance."_

Boromir frowned heavily. It did not bode well that Faramir was travelling to Minas Tirith. His initial joy at the thought of seeing his brother was drained away. As his gaze travelled over the letter a third time, he noted with even greater unease other understated signs of Faramir's distress.

 _Never have I observed him to correspond with such clipped phrases, nor with so little affection or familiarity..._

A deep sense of foreboding settled over him.

 _Ah, but I am glad that Faron drew attention to this matter..._

"My Lord?"

As the thought passed, Boromir glanced up at his servant.

"I am grateful beyond words for your discernment in this matter, Faron," Boromir stated frankly. "The matter I speak of is, as you must realise, the case of Lady Faenil's ring. I wrote Faramir yesterday evening and he has replied. It appears that your belief was right; Faramir returns from east of Osgiliath this eve to consult with me upon the matter."

A look of profound relief flashed across Faron's countenance before he could restrain himself. Boromir felt a twinge of guilt for his brusqueness the evening before; now that Faramir had confirmed their suspicions that something was amiss, he realized that Faron had faced the possibility of a wrathful lord with nothing to gain. He was an invaluable servant.

"Faron?"

"Yes, my Lord?" Given a few moments to compose himself, Faron had regained his usual implacable demeanour. He stood a metre or so away, hands clasped behind his back. Aside from the breeze whisking his inky hair, he was as motionless as a statue.

"You should be commended," Boromir informed him, gruffly. He reached out and clapped one hand on the other man's shoulder. "I—" His throat closed up short of apologizing, and he gave a stiff shrug. "We shall not know more of this matter till Faramir arrives, but it is indisputable that you have performed a great service."

Boromir had not realised Faron knew how to blush; he did not turn true red, but his cheeks did tinge with colour. It was candid praise from Boromir, who found it difficult to commend any other man to his face. Still, even the awkward attempt touched Faron deeply. He gave a low bow and then rose, eyes glinting with gratitude and joy at the approval.

"I am ever at your disposal, my Lord."

"Good," Boromir replied, gravelly. "Now; go and tell someone that Faramir arrives this eve. If any require me urgently, tell them that I shall be here until suppertime."

"Yes, my Lord. Shall I inform the Lord Steward of Faramir's coming?"

Boromir hesitated. From any other servant, such a question would have been insubordinate. Faron had a soft spot for Faramir, however, and therein won Boromir's heart.

"No, Faron," he said at length. "I shall inform him myself." _Later_ , he added silently.

"As you wish, my Lord." Faron bowed again before retreating, long strides carrying him across the seventh-tier courtyard.

Boromir watched his man pass beyond the Tower of Ecthelion and descend to the sixth tier, where many of the administration buildings were found. As Faron's dark head disappeared, the Steward-prince turned back to the east.

It was almost unthinkable that Faron's instinct could actually be correct.

 _Impossible, that Lady Faenil could really own a trinket which gives unease to not only Faron and myself, but also to Faramir!_

Boromir's heart was leaden at the thought.

 _I cannot believe it,_ he mused, in disbelief.

 _Can you not? For Faramir evidently does._

His large, roughened hands clenched unconsciously at the stone parapet before him. He cared a great deal for Lady Faenil. She had first captured his attention with her beauty, and then with her wit and manners. He liked the challenge she presented him with the mischievous glint in her eye and the independent tilt of her head. Her manners were correct, but he was certain her spirit was not meek. Even as she refused his aid in little matters, in climbing stairs or mounting her horse, she amused him. She was not forthcoming about her own history, but she was engaging.

 _And therein, perhaps, lies the problem,_ came a slow thought. _Ever has she been engaging and attractive; never has she spoken of important matters, of things which might assure her character. Her family is largely unknown, and her own respectability is only supported by her popularity in Minas Tirith. She could be utterly false in all matters, and you only made aware of it due to Faron's sheer luck. The things which you observe in her—the look in her eye which does not speak perfect truth... could it be somehow related to this matter? Could she have deceived you in every aspect?_

Boromir stared downwards, brow furrowed. His musings held too much truth, and in so doing chastened him severely. He heard again Faramir's gentle berating about his own foolishness. What would happen if Lady Faenil were discovered to be an actress? He, Boromir, had been careless in bestowing so much attention upon her. He had paused to consider her suitability in marriage, yes; her very character he had neglected.

 _And in both matters I have been a fool!_

 _Indeed. Let us hope, for the sake of all, that that which you admire in Lady Faenil is true, and that the matter of her ring is a trifle._

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back and consciously relaxing his long frame. Many years of campaigning had fashioned him well. His mind was still uneasy; yet Boromir was a practical man, and he knew there was little hope of amending the situation with undue worry. It was as useful as agonising over the outcome of a hard skirmish. And so, despite his agitation, he forced his mind elsewhere.

 _Ride swiftly, brother._

* * *

Boromir remained in his watchful posture until darkness fell. As the velvet blanket of night covered the land he gave up his vigil.

In spite of his best efforts at mental distraction, his heart was heavy as he crossed the courtyard and proceeded towards the King's House. As he passed the Court of the Fountain, his eyes lingered a moment on the withered tree which stood there. It recalled to him many of Faramir's wistful musings, of the certainty he held that a King _must_ come back to them. The sight of it only deepened Boromir's present discomfort, and he quickened his pace.

After exchanging nods with the guards, Boromir pushed open the heavy doors and stepped inside the entrance hall.

All was quiet.

After the intrigue and diversion of the previous night, the House was distractingly empty. Boromir supposed that his father would be dining in his own rooms, using the opportunity to eat and work simultaneously after the loss of those hours in company the evening before.

 _And that, at least, allows me the evening to myself._

Eager to reach his own apartments, Boromir's long strides ate up the corridors whilst his feet sent echoes up from the marble floor. His expression remained heavy as he turned into the corridor where he and Faramir roomed side-by-side. He did not savour prolonged periods spent indoors, but the suite of apartments which joined the brothers' bedrooms was the one place Boromir felt truly at home.

As he approached, he caught a glimpse of Faron's figure through the half-open door. The room was flickering with candlelight and soft shadows, the colours of which Boromir always associated with companionship and sleepiness. Pleased to see that all was in readiness for Faramir's arrival, Boromir pushed the door open wide and stepped inside.

Faron had just finished placing an enormous tray of supper on a low table. Hearing Boromir enter, he rose and gave a slight bow.

"Thank you, Faron," Boromir said, before his man had time to speak. He eyed the tray hungrily. "This looks excellent. I trust you will have Faramir escorted hence when he a—"

"Boromir!"

Only one voice in the world could call out just like that.

Boromir's eyes flicked with whirlwind speed to the door which lead to Faramir's room. From that archway issued a tall dark figure wearing a broad grin. He was in a peculiar state of dress, having shed armour and his outer tunic layers. Still, he was no less welcome a sight for all that he was wearing his undertunic, leggings and a pair of thick socks.

Heedless of his half-finished command to Faron, Boromir crossed the room in two strides. Faramir was scarcely less quick, and the brothers met in a hearty embrace involving deep chuckles and a great deal of clapping one another on the back and shoulder.

"Brother! Indeed you were swift this night," Boromir cried, standing back a little and meeting Faramir's gaze with unfeigned delight. "I had not hoped to expect you for two more hours at least!"

Faramir smiled a little ruefully. "I confess I was eager to arrive and pushed my horse hard. Faron," he called out over Boromir's shoulder, "would you see that he is well cared for? He has galloped many miles."

Boromir glanced backward then and observed Faron smile and bow.

"Certainly, Lord Faramir. And I shall send someone to collect the supper tray in due course."

"Thank you, Faron," smiled the younger brother, as the man exited the room and pulled the door to with a soft _thud_.

"Oh, but I am glad you have come!" Boromir cried again, and they embraced a second time. His face was pulled tight in a happy grin.

 _Many things may yet to be faced—but oh, how the world feels a more comforting place with Faramir returned!_

"I am glad to come, though the circumstances were less than favourable," Faramir admitted, his fine-featured face twisting into a pensive frown. "Still, it would be a disservice not to first enjoy the wonderful fare Faron has produced for us, and to exchange news of a lighter nature," he concluded, his face slipping back into a warm half-smile. "Shall we?"

"With pleasure," Boromir chuckled, realizing how many hours it had been since he last ate. He moved back towards the centre of the room, where the low table was surrounded by several dark sofas. "I could never ask for your counsel on an empty stomach."

"Ah," the younger sighed, flopping heavily upon one of the chairs with a contended expression. "I am glad you have not changed in essentials, brother."

"Not a bit. I feast well and often—better, most likely, than you, with your rations!"

Faramir's eyes answered that jest well enough; they shone as they passed over the fresh bread, spiced meats and dishes of steaming, buttery vegetables.

"Come along, you first," Boromir prompted him, taking up one of the stone plates and beginning to pile it high with food. "You might slice the bread, if you wish to be useful."

"Yes, Captain-General." Faramir took up the knife and began to cut the loaf with deft, smooth slices. As he did so, his grey eyes fell upon his brother's left hand.

"What have you done to your finger, Boromir?" he inquired, with a feeble attempt at nonchalance.

"Aearon—great lumbering bear that he is—broke it for me whilst we were doing drill," came the wry reply. "It has only been splinted three days and already I find it unbearable." As he dumped a pile of potato on Faramir's plate, his thought drifted to the one that had administered the splint. He also wished he'd obeyed the earlier impulse and removed it.

He shook his head and produced a grin to allay Faramir's concern.

"It is unlike you to take such an injury," Faramir mused, looking troubled. "Did you treat it yourself or go to the Healers this time?"

Boromir grimaced. "The Healers—unfortunately. You'll find Ioreth unchanged, but she has many beneath her who are very capable."

"That is well. You know a great deal about injuries, and yet I still find the way you manage your own rather haphazard and incautious."

"You are not the first to remind me of that this week."

Faramir smiled softly. "Good. You ought to be more careful."

"I hardly have any cause for great caution," the elder chuckled. "I remain here, doing paperwork, riding abroad the Pelennor with friends for my own amusement, and listening to Father's many dictates, whilst _you_ are in Ithilien, risking your life! And you have the audacity to tell me to be careful! Ah, little brother." With a grin, Boromir held out the plates.

"There is little action in Ithilien," Faramir protested lightly, placing three slices of the bread on each plate and receiving his with a smile. "And I am not the one with a broken finger, am I?"

Boromir made no reply, merely raising a dark eyebrow and biting into his bread with relish.

"Now, whilst we eat, it is your duty to tell me of the state of the company," he told his brother, after they had both swallowed several mouthfuls with the desperation of starving vagrants. "How is morale among the men? Are the commanders managing them well?" Boromir perched eagerly on the edge of the sofa, his left hand balancing his plate on one knee. After an initial taste, it subsided to secondary importance behind the state of the men— _his men._

Faramir laughed. "You speak as if you believe that the Captains cannot manage without you, Boromir."

"Nay, not at all," the latter replied, a trifle wryly. "I am well aware that there are many among them more deserving of the title of Captain-General than I. It is, rather, a case that I cannot do without them." He slouched a little then, his broad shoulders feeling leaden.

"Cheer up, brother," Faramir urged him, with a grin.

"Hmph," came the disparaging reply. "Now, come along; report!"

After a moment of laughter, Faramir obliged. He punctuated his clear, businesslike account of the Rangers' doings with pauses to consume dinner. He gave a brisk report on numbers, supplies and general feeling amongst the troops, as well as the state of enemy movements. Holding the eastern shore of the riverbank was an arduous task, yet it seemed as if the army was in a fairly firm state. When he had finished, he held out his hand for Boromir's similarly-empty plate and refilled them both.

"Does that satisfy you?" Faramir teased, taking a drink and returning to his fresh pile of buttery potatoes.

"Naught will truly satisfy me except to be among the men again," Boromir admitted. "Still, it goes a little way."

His brother half-smiled. "Nay, and it will be good to have you nearby again. Yet you are doing your duty, in remaining at Father's side. We must be glad that you might bring him joy in this service."

Boromir gave a gruff nod, before adding a piece of lamb to the carrots already in his mouth. Faramir's head was bowed slightly over his plate, eyes averted as he devoted his attention to his dinner; a poor disguise, and they both knew it. Boromir watched him for a time, his heart aching for his little brother. He, who throve on diplomacy and had such a vast understanding of the administration of the city. Boromir slaved over books because he must; Faramir did so because he delighted in the challenge they presented to him.

 _And yet for us to trade positions, thereby satisfying both parties, would merely incite Father to wrath. Nothing Faramir undertakes seems to please him, even if he were to complete a task a score of times over and better than I could do it myself._

"What do you ponder, Boromir?"

The latter blinked, eyes focusing on the curious expression his brother wore. Faramir was watching him with those steadfast grey eyes. He exerted himself to smile.

"Nothing, merely daydreaming. It has been a long few weeks."

Faramir gave a sympathetic grimace. "I am afraid the other news I must bring you shall not calm your thoughts any."

 _Ah._

Boromir's hand gripped compulsively at the plate he held. Faramir's look held him, caught like a hare under a fox's scrutiny. He swallowed. Fear tugged at him, fear which had been momentarily swamped by his delight at Faramir's arrival. It gnawed at him, tussling with tendrils of guilt which emerged whenever his thoughts lingered on Lady Faenil. For, not only would he be held to account for his flirtation, but very well for consorting with a woman who was—well, he did not yet know. He sat, helpless, as the atmosphere in the room sank from elation to rigidity.

"Speak, Faramir."

The words were gravelly and low, torn from him with great effort.

Faramir's brow puckered in concern. "Clearly what this news might mean concerns you greatly, brother! I shall speak more plainly in a moment. But first, pray tell me from what foul object you copied the script you wrote me."

Mechanically, Boromir abandoned his plate on the table. His right hand snaked for the small pouch near the belt of his tunic. With two fingers, he withdrew the ring on its chain and held it out towards his brother.

"This; a trinket belonging to a friend."

Bemused, Faramir took it and turned it over in his nimble hands. "Here is an object unlooked for! Why, the chain comes from the north; from Dale, I should say, for their craftsmanship exceeds most others in the days since Smaug's destruction. But the ring I cannot place so easily. Do you know aught of the substance it is crafted from, Boromir?"

"Nothing. That first called my attention, though it fell into insignificance beside the script on the band."

Hungrily, Faramir drew the ring close to him and began to scan the letters. As he turned it over, his face grew grey and hard.

"What is it?" Boromir urged him, voice low. "What concerns you so?"

Faramir lowered it with a grim sigh. "I know not what this item is. Moreover, my understanding of the language used upon its surface is poor, yet it is without a doubt the language of Mordor; the Black Speech. Beyond that, I cannot tell, and would need to enter the archi—"

"Of _Mordor_?"

"Aye."

"How can that be?" the elder brother exploded, throwing himself to his feet and half-stumbling away from the chairs and table. He whirled back to face Faramir. "It cannot be. It cannot be of Mordor, brother! She would not own such a thing."

Desperation fueled him. He spat the words like a growling thundercloud.

Faramir's eyebrows shot skyward.

" _She_?"

 _Now you have unveiled all. And what shall Faramir say?_

"Pray sit, Boromir, and explain the meaning of this," said Faramir, all astonishment. He placed the ring in his lap. "I believe our understanding of what this creation of Mordor is shall be greatly enhanced if you speak plainly." His gaze pierced Boromir so sharply that the latter returned to his seat, his non-splinted hand clenching in his agitation.

"Who is the woman, Boromir?"

Soft. Unassuming. Devoid of judgement or cynicism.

That was Faramir. He loved him for it.

"Lady Faenil of Anfalas," Boromir sighed, her name coming out on a breath of resignation.

Pause.

"Are—are you betrothed, Boromir?"

" _No_ ," he groaned, hands moving to cover his face. He felt very small and vulnerable and naked before his brother's soft-spoken query. He reviled the feeling. Faramir was naïve; as if they _must_ be betrothed, for Boromir to feel so deeply for the woman. That was Faramir's way, all honour and propriety.

"You are courting, then?" he probed, and Boromir's guilt nibbled at him.

"Nay, Faramir," came the slow reply. "We are not. Perhaps I have courted her in deed, but not in word nor in intention. She—she is a friend."

Boromir's eyes moved slowly from his own knees to meet with his brother's. Faramir watched him. His mouth worked, as if he might reproach his older brother for the confession. Boromir knew what he would say, had envisioned it a hundred times as he teased and flirted with Lady Faenil—as he came to depend upon her as his source of company and amusement.

Yet no lecture came.

"Tell me of her, Boromir."

How could he speak of her? He stumbled over words, blundered as often as not. He seemed to amuse and offend Lady Faenil in equal measure with his quips; how could he describe the woman to his brother?

"She is no one of great importance," he murmured. "A noblewoman of Anfalas; her father sent her hither that she might learn beneath Ioreth in the Houses as a Healer. She is very capable; Captain Rostor sang her praises before I had yet seen her."

Faramir's countenance shifted slightly, his lower lip puckering. "That is no small commendation of her skill. How did you encounter her? I did not think you sought company overmuch."

"Certainly not," Boromir replied, a ghost of a smile flittering past his face. "Nay, I encountered her in the Houses. I was in the store cupboard—"

"Pilfering stores again?"

"—retrieving some remedies—oh, do not reproach me with your eyes—and Lady Faenil was present. She—she told me in no uncertain terms that what I was doing was forbidden and she would report me to Ioreth. Of course, when she realised her mistake—"

"By which you mean, when you firmly reminded her of your lofty position—" came the sarcastic interjection.

"—she was horribly uncomfortable. Still, I liked her boldness. I paid her a visit. She is rather like... you remember my first pony, Faramir?"

Faramir, watching him with patient eyes, abruptly frowned. "You compare her to Allblack?"

"Yes," retorted Boromir, a little defensive. "Not in looks, certainly. But you will remember how Allblack would look at you with such defiance in her eyes? She would behave, for the most part, yet her spirit was not cowed. She would glance at you sideways, and you would see it. That is Lady Faenil. She is polite, yet you can see plainly enough that beneath the surface she'd rather be doing something _interesting_. She is—"

Boromir broke off.

 _Whatever she is must now be overshadowed by the fact that she is also, likely, a traitor._

"She is?"

Boromir hesitated before he spoke next, weighing his words. Faramir had subsided to his usual state of equanimity.

"She seemed to me a puzzle, Faramir. Oh, there are plenty of women who enjoy riding outdoors. She is not unique in that matter. She wields no weapon—though I do confess, she knows an awful lot about our forces... Ah, you see, there it is. Lady Faenil seemed to know more than she ought, to be concealing more than just trivial gossip. That is what drew me, and perhaps will be my undoing. I wished to _know_ what she concealed, for it was more intriguing than affairs and scandals. And so I contended for her time, and perhaps only by the sheerest luck and Faron's sharp eyes the truth has been revealed to me." Boromir paused and swallowed. "It seems that I was tricked by a pretty face and veiled words, and the things which I longed to know concern even more than I could have anticipated—the work of the Dark Lord."

Much to Boromir's relief, Faramir did not speak immediately. The former's words swept towards him in a wave of implications. Faramir blinked and met them with implacable calm.

"It is _impossible_ for a woman to own such a trinket, laced with the tongue of Mordor, unless she were connected with that place in some way. She _must_ hail from the land of Shadow. Is this truly the first sign you have observed that she might be involved with dark powers?"

Boromir scowled at the carpet as he uttered the sharp reply. "Of course, Faramir. I would have had her arrested immediately if I had suspected anything of that kind." He faltered. "I am not wholly weak."

"I would not have said so," protested Faramir, firmly.

Tearing his gaze from the floor, Boromir dragged his attention upwards with reluctance.

Faramir waited. There was pity in that look, pity for the elder brother.

 _The elder brother who blunders and falters and can do nothing well—yet also the one who he must watch receive the father's blessing for no cause. How does he endure?_

And Faramir waited.

"What do you suggest we do?" Boromir sighed, rubbing his jaw. He realized he was leaning forward in his seat, body taught with agitation. Forcing his muscles to relax, he settled back in the chair, large hands spreading across his knees.

Wordlessly, Faramir held up the ring.

 _The ring._

Boromir knew the answer to the question himself.

"We must contain Lady Faenil."

* * *

 **REVIEW REPLIES**

 **. .Name - I always envisioned that, when the War was coming/came, the Program would go into a kind of "lockdown" mode. The operatives would disappear and pop back out again when the time had passed, or else retreat to a holding where war would not march upon them (such as Caoloth). I didn't put a bunch of thought into it though. o.O**

 **chisscientist - Yes, Denethor would have been a faster method. But, ya know. :P**

 **Tattlettratel - No, I don't plan to develop the relationship between Winter and the Captain particularly. Aearon is a bit of a cad; a likeable cad, but not someone Winter would hang out with a bunch methinks.**

 **ksecc1 - Yes, Winter definitely asked for it all. She has this kind of self-destruct thing where she feels bad for blunders yet doesn't seem to take reasonable measures to prevent some of them. Ah, Winter. Poor thing. xD**

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTES**

 **Well there's Chapter 17, and once again later than I expected (this time blame university, college and a cold which has me in bed).**

 **I don't really know how to preface this one. I'm not going to explain or rationalise any of it; I'd rather hear what you guys think raw and real. What do you think will happen? How do you think Boromir/Faramir will go about it? What do you think Winter will do?**

 **Also, what do you think of my introduction of Faramir? :D I'm excited for him. Especially Winter PoV in the next chapter involving Faramir. Teehee. Such fun.**

 **Let me know what you guys think! I promise to respond to all reviews.**

 **Love, Finwe. x**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18 - Prisoner**

* * *

 _8_ _th_ _April, 3007_

Winter's generally-good spirits re-inflated in the days after the dinner party with the Steward's family. She had heard naught of Boromir the previous day, something which both vexed and relieved her. Perhaps the two sentiments were of equal intensity, for she found herself in a pleasing state of equanimity as the hours slipped by. A day of wrangling her thoughts into submission had hardly gone amiss, either. Regardless of the source of her pleasant mood, she found it easier than usual to rise that morning as Aeglossel opened her curtains and the warm spring morning leaped inside.

"Good morning, milady," her maid called softly, as Winter sat up in bed and smoothed back her hair.

"Morning," the latter mumbled, a little hoarse. She blinked several times as her eyes adjusted to the cheery sun pouring into her room. "What time is it?"

"Half six, milady."

"Mmm," was Winter's ambiguous reply. She allowed herself the luxury of sitting upon the downy mattress a little longer before slipping from beneath the coverlet.

Aeglossel was moving about her chambers with the nimble swiftness of a sparrow. Winter smiled in soft admiration for the girl's dainty movements and immaculate fishtail braid which hung down her back.

"Can you do my hair like that today, Lossie?"

"Certainly, milady," the one addressed nodded, her face glinting with pleasure at both the request and Winter's familiar nickname. "Though I shall add some small pearl pins."

"Excellent." Winter pulled her bedspread up over the sheets out of habit before moving to the wardrobe. Aeglossel was wont to remake her bed no matter how much Winter protested, and the latter had stopped arguing her point. Still, Winter could not abandon her bed with the sheets strewn across it. Ada Newhall's training was too well-remembered.

It was the work of a moment for Winter to shed her nightgown and pull on her day garments, donning the now-familiar grey dress of a Healer. She paused expectantly and Aeglossel fastened it behind her waist. The maid stepped aside to finish her morning tidying, and Winter seated herself at the dresser to wait.

She was looking forward to today's work more than usual. Ioreth had finally relinquished her iron grip on Winter's activities after the near-disaster with Second Captain Rostor's shoulder. The man had healed well and flattered Winter by referring two men of his company to her with a dislocated knee and finger respectively. Ioreth had loomed over her like a falcon as she had cautiously reset the appendages, whilst Winter was acutely conscious of the lack of proper medical equipment. Still, both were successful, and after over a month of careful supervision, she was finally allowed more room to use her other-worldly skills. Ioreth had begrudgingly permitted her to tend patients returning after bad breaks or tears, and Winter was eager to show them exercises to aid in their recovery.

She absently took up a hairbrush and began working out the tangles as she pondered the work ahead of her. There were several people with injured knees and hips that she was particularly interested in seeing.

 _This is the real thing,_ she mused happily, mechanically allowing Aeglossel to take the brush and finish detangling her hair. _Think of all the people here who, without modern medicine, would just have to live with chronic pain forever! All the dodgy knees because they haven't rested properly or have an untreated injury._

 _Don't get too many lofty ideals, you've been doing this a month, and the amount of people you've actually helped could be counted on one hand._

 _Well that's not entirely true, I've been on the ward, so—_

 _Ok, ok, don't get a swollen head though. What would your mo—_

 _Not today, stupid. Let me have my moment, I promise I won't run away with it._

"Do you wish to wear these pins today, milady?"

Winter's vague gaze jerked to Aeglossel's face in the mirror behind her. The maid was holding up a set of pearl pins set in silver flower studs. Winter nodded, pleased, and admired Aeglossel's handiwork as she deftly placed the pins in the soft waves of her red hair.

"Lovely," Winter affirmed, as the last pearl was nestled near the base of her neck. Aeglossel flushed a becoming pink and stepped back. "Is that all?"

"You are ready, milady. Breakfast awaits you downstairs."

"Then I had best be off. Thank you, Lossie."

"I will finish tidying milady, and bring your cloak down ere you are ready to depart." The girl turned aside as she flushed a darker red.

Grinning to herself at having elicited such becoming embarrassment in her maid, Winter rose and moved to the door. After tugging on her shoes, she padded down the now-familiar staircase to the sunny breakfast room.

"Good morning, milady." Túiel curtseyed.

"Morning," replied Winter, blithe and airy as she crossed the carpet to the breakfast table. The meal had just been laid out, silver dishes leaking wisps of steam. As she moved towards her seat, Badhor materialized from the door leading to the servant's quarters, long strides carrying him to Winter's side. He pulled the chair back with a practiced hand, seated Winter, and crossed behind her to seat Túiel.

Winter chewed her lip, thoughts happily occupied with the day ahead. This was the daily ritual, the dance about the table as Badhor seated the ladies and returned to his own chair. It was Túiel serving Winter, then the _byrath_ , then herself. It was the prim set of Túiel's head as she waited for Winter to begin eating before her staff could do the same.

Pancakes, this morning. Or some derivative of the kind, Winter assumed. It was a fluffy, flattened cake, thoughtfully dusted with sugar and served with a veritable mountain of raspberries and blackberries. Lord Lossemen's kitchen staff had never served this dish before.

Winter picked up her knife and fork and began to eat.

 _Now that's a recipe worth stealing,_ she mused, chewing with an appreciative look.

"Is the food to your satisfaction, milady?"

 _Best breakfast I've had since I got here_. "It is excellent, Túiel."

Her companion nodded, pleased. She looked across to Badhor, who took a sip of water before speaking.

"Milady, might we consider your social engagements for the week?"

Spearing another piece of pancake and popping it in her mouth, Winter nodded her assent.

Badhor placed his cutlery aside.

"You will recall that in three days hence you have been invited to attend Lady Ólwen and a company of other ladies in her pavilion upon the Pelennor?"

"I do recall, yes," Winter nodded, before taking another bite of pancake.

"Lady Ólwen holds such outings frequently," added Túiel. "She is considered rather famous for her elegant outdoor parties, for she has truly excellent household staff, and her husband spares no expense in allowing her to indulge herself. It is a great compliment to receive an invitation, Lady Faenil; Lady Ólwen is rather select."

 _Oh dear goodness, it's like Year 2 and girls' birthday parties all over again._

Winter paused to reflect a moment before speaking. In spite of her first hasty thought, she knew Lady Ólwen from some reasonable degree of acquaintance by this point. She was sweet woman, fond of luxury, but by no means... _bitchy_ , for lack of a better word. She would desire the best company, but she would say as much innocently and without any thought of having injured another who was to be excluded.

 _Hmm._

"Do you know aught of who else has been invited, Badhor?" she inquired slowly.

Her _byrath_ nodded. "Lady Hwinnith, Lady Eregnith and Lady Morwen shall also be in attendance. There ought to be several others, surmised from the usual size of Lady Ólwen's parties, but I do not know who."

Winter smiled. An interesting group, especially with Lady Morwen in attendance. Winter was accustomed to flitting among the other ladies—especially Eregnith, whom she had grown fond of since the Wreathweaving—but had met Lady Morwen for the first time at the Steward's dinner party.

Thinking of that event caused her to clutch at the handle of her fork. Her smile melted a little, and she glanced down at her meal swiftly to hide the fact. She could feel Túiel's eyes upon her; living with the eagle-eyed woman had given her a sixth sense for such things.

"I look forward to the event," she said, smiling first at Badhor and then Túiel.

"And then you have the matter of dinner with Lady Silef, the day after."

"Is that all for this week?"

Badhor shot her a mild look of amusement. "That is all that is _planned_ , milady, though I have forsaken any thoughts that your schedule is restricted to the planned."

He did not have to speak explicitly. Winter flushed a little at the veiled jab at the Steward-prince's attentions. Badhor was entirely correct; so often her schedule was filled five times over with Boromir's impulsive requests.

 _A quiet week, indeed._

 _Yet perhaps it will be,_ she mused, and with some hope. _Perhaps Denethor thought me dull and boring, and will forbid his son to see me. That would be gloriously convenient._

She nodded to herself, satisfied, as she continued her breakfast.

 _Convenient, yes. Enjoyable? Nay. Admit it, you enjoy Boromir's company when it's not in a formal setting._

She faltered briefly with a piece of pancake halfway to her mouth.

 _...well... yes, I do._

 _Ahah!_

 _But compared to the troubles,_ she thought, resolutely bringing her fork the rest of the way to her mouth, _it is simply not worth it. Let him stay away._

Her internal voice chuckled. _If you think you will enjoy that most, then certainly, wish him away._

Winter suppressed a scowl with difficulty. No. Such thoughts would not ruin her morning—it was a perfectly good one, to be spoiled by thoughts of Boromir and his unreachable position. He would return to the front soon enough. That would suit them all best.

"Please send my compliments to Cook, Túiel," Winter remarked, as she finished her meal. Túiel and Badhor had subsided into silence when their lady did, the latter being eager to finish her meal and escape any melancholy thoughts.

"I shall, milady. She was eager to receive your approval for the dish."

"And wholeheartedly do I give it. Tell her I desire to sample it on other occasions."

Túiel nodded, pleased. Her grey eyes met with Winter's for an instant, causing the girl to pause as if struck. There was a warm approval in her companion's gaze, a light of pleasure that spoke volumes to Winter. It made Winter glad that she had praised Cook's work, though such a compliment had seemed rather insignificant as she spoke it. Túiel, with her characteristic sharpness, could not miss the benevolent condescension of lady toward staff member, and she rejoiced in it. The look sang of her approval, as if to realise that Winter of Brisbane had finally begun to step into her job as Lady Faenil.

Brief as it was, Túiel's expression warmed Winter from her toes.

 _Well at least you got something right._

The cynic's voice was tossed aside like chaff in the wind. Túiel's pleasure and approval—hard won, and worth it's weight in gold—was hers. Winter smiled as she placed her cutlery on her plate.

 _Yes. I did get something right. That's just the beginning._

Seeing she was finished, Badhor placed his own meal aside and rose to pull out her chair.

"Thank you, Badhor," Winter said, taking her napkin from the table and brushing off her hands. She moved to one side to fetch the cloak Aeglossel had deposited on the table whilst they ate.

"I will be off now," she told Túiel, swinging her cloak over her own shoulders. "I will send a runner if I require anything."

Her companion smiled softly and curtseyed. "Yes, milady."

Winter couldn't help grin at Túiel's warm expression. She moved to the door, and, without thinking, slipped out with a last, "See ya this arvo!"

* * *

Sam and Will were Winter's guards this morning, to her delight. She still had not succeeded in drawing much out of the pair about their Earth-homes, and was a little reluctant to try; those who relocated to Middle-earth were often rather reticent. Nevertheless, she liked to walk between them, knowing that if she muttered a Peter Jackson quip under her breath they wouldn't be able to restrain their grins.

She knew. She'd tried it a few times.

They passed swiftly through the crowds, the tall guards cutting an easy path among the people for the noblewoman they escorted. The sun fell hot on Winter's hair, and she breathed deep. The air here was indescribable. _Clear_ fell short of encompassing it, for which each breath it filled her lungs with glorious fragrance.

As the days passed, Winter's journey to the Houses had grown swifter. She realised as they slipped among the mob that she no longer gawked at the faces of passers-by as once she had. She knew these faces, walked by them each day. They were people in _her_ city, not strange creatures any longer.

 _Oh, how different home will be._

She wouldn't think of that, not yet. That was many months away.

 _Think of how many bedpans Ioreth will have you change before then!_

That was enough to elicit a grimace, despite her good spirits.

Sam moved ahead to open the gate which enclosed the garden surrounding the Houses. Winter smiled her thanks and moved along the path as her guards followed her.

She strode briskly along, trusting that Sam and Will would fall in behind. Seeing the Houses reignited her enthusiasm for some physiotherapist work today. She couldn't repress her smile.

As she passed among the shrubs which lined the path and moved towards the stairs to the front door, she caught a glimpse of several tall figures in the gardens to her left. Her head flicked to that side, though she did not pause to study them more closely; two men, both tall and with dark hair unbound, wearing combat gear and with swords on their hips. Most likely recently released from the ward.

Winter gave them no thought.

She passed into the entrance hall and met one of the lower serving girls, who took her cloak. Seeing her safely deposited, Sam and Will bowed and departed.

Eager to begin, Winter ascended a flight of stairs to a part of the eastern wing filled with clinic rooms. These were smaller rooms where Healers would treat patients who came to pay visits but did not need to be admitted—rather like a doctor's surgery. Ioreth had assigned Winter a small room for her work, to the younger woman's great delight. It was about 12 metres square, with stone walls and floor, a stone-topped cabinet for medicinal stores, a tiny window, and some battered furniture. Winter had already moved several boxes of stores in, and spent a couple of precious hours the day before hunting out some cloth and padding to soften her surgery table and convert it to a kind of massage bed. The result was rather lumpy and misshapen, but comfortable enough.

The room was as she had left it the day before. Leaving the door open, Winter began to prepare herself, rummaging through various items and producing some parchment and quills to make notes on those she was to treat. She was rather smug about her clinic room assignment; Gaerel had been working at the Houses far longer, and still had yet to be assigned her own patients. Winter grinned to herself.

With all the enthusiasm of a child, she surveyed her clinic room again. All was ready. _She_ was ready to do something a little more meaningful than sponging brows and dicing herbs.

Not wanting to appear idle if her first patient were to arrive suddenly, she moved to the cabinet and checked her stores again. Still there. Like someone would sneak in and steal them while she wasn't looking.

Yeah. Right.

Just as she was about to flop down in one of the wooden chairs to help quench her excitement, Winter heard the heavy tread of several men coming along the corridor.

Suddenly frenzied, she rushed back to the counter and was just pretending to shuffle through her paperwork as she saw a man enter the room out of her peripherals. She turned to him with the beginning of a smile when he moved aside to allow another three men to enter.

What had first escaped her notice now became abundantly clear—these were no mere men, but soldiers, in the livery of the Guard of the Citadel. They were exceedingly tall, all of them, with stern and noble faces.

"Lady Faenil?" the first one inquired in a deep, gravelly voice.

Regathering her wits, Winter glanced at the pattern on his vambraces and tunic that marked him a Captain and smiled. "Yes, Captain."

The man's jaw clenched a little, and he seemed to struggle for words.

"Are you here for treatment?" Winter asked slowly, the Captain's pained expression beginning to cause her concern.

"Nay, Lady; we are to arrest thee. Will thee come willingly?"

Winter stared at him, utterly stunned. Unfortunately, her tongue did not fail her so easily. "Arrest me? Whatever for?" she countered, bewildered.

"That is a matter for the Steward, milady," replied the Captain, in a surprisingly gentle tone. He almost looked apologetic. "I ask again; will thee come willingly?"

"I—I—" Winter stammered, eyes darting from guard to guard in utter shock. Her head felt a little light. _Yeah, now's a great time to faint._ "There must be a mistake, Captain."

"There is no mistake, milady. I entreat thee thrice; you _must_ come."

 _What on earth...?_

 _Maybe you offended Denethor worse than you realised..._

 _Oh dear goodness._

Taking a breath to stave off panic, Winter gave a curt nod. "I will come, but this must be an error. I know of no reason why the Steward would wish to have me arrested. I hope we can amend the mistake swiftly."

The Captain did an admirable job of trying to hide his relief. He was young. He would learn.

Winter glanced about the clinic room, idly wondering what would become of the day's patients. Shock dulled her emotions, and she found that she cared little. All her thoughts were taken up in her bewilderment.

 _Is there another redheaded Lady Faenil floating around that they could've gotten me mixed up with?_

"Milady?"

Winter realised she had been staring absently about the room. The other guards had moved into the corridor, whilst the Captain waited for her to exit.

"Ah—yes."

She crossed the room woodenly, stepping out of the door. One of the other guards stood to the right, supposedly preventing her from fleeing deeper into the Houses, whilst the other two waited to lead them back out of the entrance. Glancing down the corridor, Winter grimaced as she saw several Healers peering out of the clinic room doors with unmitigated interest.

 _You'll be the talk of the city this time tomorrow,_ she realised, a little horrified.

 _Wouldn't be the first time, unfortunately._

The Captain closed the clinic door behind them, and Winter found herself moving along the corridor without any real idea how her feet were operating. Her thoughts were running at breakneck speed, trying to piece together any possible reason that Lord Denethor would have her _arrested_. She had broken no laws, she could say that confidently.

 _...and what if he has discovered you are not from Middle-earth?_

Her stomach plummeted to her feet.

 _Oh._

 _But how could he? We were so careful! Surely Badhor or Túiel would have realised?_

 _Yes. Yeah, they would. Yep. They would've had to. We're good at this. They're good at this, right?_

 _...nothing's infallible, no disguise or plan..._

 _Oh gosh, he's figured me out. I'm going to be executed!_

 _Nah, surely not. They can't have._

Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Her mind raged silently as they passed several whispering Healers and descended the stairs to the entrance hall. Dread and hope flung themselves at one another, throwing her mind into a pendulum-like state which sapped her of any real awareness.

She clutched desperately at the hand rail as she stumbled down the stairs.

 _How did this happen?_

The guards ahead of her paused as they reached the bottom, and she nearly staggered into their broad backs. Realising they were stopping, she looked upward.

If possible, her stomach roiled further.

Standing in front of the guards, as if to check their progress, were two men—both tall, raven-haired and handsome, with similar features and broad shoulders. Boromir.

 _And that is Faramir, or I'm ditsier than even Mum suspects._

Winter's eyes widened. The two brothers were a pair of sentinels, as the guards moved to one side and left her before them. Never had she felt so small as in that moment beneath the iron looks of both the sons of Denethor.

"Boromir?" she squeaked, her trepidation growing.

Boromir's eyes—colder than steel, and harder, too—met hers. They were flinty and unfeeling.

He looked at her a moment, before turning his gaze to the Captain.

"She gave no trouble?"

"None, my Lord."

"Escort her to her cell."

Panic rushed through Winter like a tidal wave. Tears burst forth unbidden, so sudden and unanticipated that there was no thought of stopping them.

"Boromir! What is happening?" she cried, before she could restrain herself. Her legs felt suddenly shaky, but as she staggered it was one of the guards, not Boromir, who caught her elbow.

Boromir's jaw hardened, but he did not speak—would not. Winter stared at him, eyes like orbs as she struggled to comprehend the scene before her. Tears leaked down her face.

"Take her away," he managed at last, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Another iron grip extended to take her other elbow as the guards moved her aside. Frantic, Winter flailed in their grasp, turning her body to look at the two men behind her. From her mouth issued an incoherent cry, and she nearly staggered to the floor.

Boromir stood there, as soft and caring as a bastion of stone. He spoke the words which condemned her, and watched as she was half-dragged from his sight. _Boromir_.

As she reached the entrance to the Houses she stumbled again and glanced over her shoulder one last time. The brothers had not moved; there was to be no call for clemency. Still, as her blurred gaze passed over Boromir's rocky expression, she saw Faramir—it was on his face alone that a semblance of pity remained.

And so she was taken, weeping from the Houses.

* * *

Boromir remained rooted to the spot for a full minute after Lady Faenil had been escorted out. His hands were clamped by his sides, a muscle in his jaw throbbing from clenching it. His entire being roiled at the sight of Lady Faenil being so gracelessly removed by the Guards. He exhaled through his teeth and shook his head. It did little to dispel the image of her tearful, pleading, _bewildered_ countenance.

"It is done," he growled, eyes boring into the ground. Faramir stood to his left, silent. He had read his brother's expression as Lady Faenil was removed; compassion. It was Faramir through and through. He knew Boromir's pain in condemning the woman, and thus expressed his grief at her arrest.

It was almost galling, to receive such affection from his younger brother, especially when he, Boromir, had been entirely at fault in befriending her.

"It is done, and not soon enough," Boromir repeated, steeling himself and looking upward. He forced himself to meet Faramir's eyes.

He had not mistaken the pity there. Faramir's noble face brimmed with it, and Boromir knew he felt the pain as if it were his own.

"Brother, I—"

Boromir did not speak to reprimand him, yet Faramir cut off his speech. The flicker of pain in Boromir's eyes was enough to deter him.

"There will be time for kind words later," acknowledged Boromir, gruffly. "Let us first suffer what we must, in seeing her restrained. We must find out what she knows, and thwart whatever schemes of the enemy she seeks to enact."

Faramir's cool grey eyes held his for a moment, before he nodded in acquiescence. That brief pause, as if Faramir might have protested, told Boromir many things—chiefly, that his little brother had seized the burden of manhood with both hands in the months since they had last met.

"Let us go, then, and do what we must," said Faramir, slowly. His gaze slipped around the entrance of the Houses, noting the many who lingered there, muttering. Dozens had followed Lady Faenil and her escort from the east wing, gathering more as they passed, until a veritable horde of Healers and patients were watching with hungry, curious eyes.

"Aye, and swiftly we must go," Boromir muttered, "for as we tarry I see Healer Ioreth approach, and very greatly do I desire to avoid such intercourse. Come, Faramir." He turned on his heel and crossed the entrance hall in long strides. Each step felt as if he carried the manacles Lady Faenil must soon wear.

 _Ah, but how could I have been so foolish!_

His thoughts were a tempest. With each long stride, he sought to pound his mind into submission with force equal to that which drove his feet into the ground.

 _Fool! Fool!_

Boromir knew his own pride. He shrank from confessing it—perhaps another symptom of the condition—yet he knew he possessed it with the same surety he knew he loved Faramir. Today, he felt the full, crushing weight of that unyielding emotion. Had he but unbent himself a little, he might have realised what foolishness his fickle courtship of Lady Faenil truly was.

 _Had I but sought counsel!_

 _Had you merely trusted your true instincts,_ the forthright part of him grumbled. _You knew such a relationship was foolishness, if only because you could not wed the woman. Consider now what a little circumspection might have saved you!_

It was bitter medicine to swallow. His countenance was heavy and foreboding as he pounded along the road to the far side of the sixth tier. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware that Faramir followed slightly to the left. Boromir did not have the heart to slow even a fraction and allow his brother to draw level with him. His mind worked furiously, and his hasty footsteps provided the only outlet for his fury.

He crossed a busy thoroughfare, heedless of the stares which he inevitably drew as the Steward-prince.

He would question Lady Faenil. He would observe, hawklike, her manner and expressions. He would spare nothing in this quest to ascertain her guilt—he owed that much, to his father. To Gondor.

The evidence condemned her. He knew it, as he barrelled past a row of hawkers without sparing them a glance, and yet... was it possible that the confusion on her countenance as they had taken her away was genuine?

Boromir dared not entertain the thought.

 _She must be guilty. The evidence indicates it without question._

He steeled and breathed deep several times. They had reached the administrative buildings on the northern side of the sixth tier. Here the guards would keep Lady Faenil under lock and key; not in the common prison lower in the city, but in a highly-guarded cell near the Citadel. For, though she might be traitor and spy, she was still a noblewoman. She would not be condemned to the indignity of sharing a cell with common criminals.

He hesitated as they drew near, and Faramir increased his pace until he reached Boromir's side. The brothers paused in the square before one of the buildings; a cold structure of stone which housed the Steward's representatives of law and justice within Gondor, as well as the small cluster of cells for more affluent wrongdoers.

"Would you rather not be the one to question her, Boromir?"

Boromir scowled, though he did not turn his gaze to his younger brother. "Nay, Faramir; I must pay for my own foolishness. I must do it, for I am the Captain-General."

For an instant his resolve wavered. He stared at the building where Lady Faenil was now held, and he was besieged by guilt. There was something he could not shake about Lady Faenil's expression as she'd been escorted out. She was shocked, bewildered— _beseeching,_ wondering why he had ordered her arrest. She had seemed utterly amazed, and so desperate as she'd called his name.

Like he'd betrayed her trust.

 _Could she be innocent?_

Boromir glanced across at Faramir. He stood calmly, arms clasped behind him and gaze drifting across the landscape to the north. Sensing Boromir's eyes, he turned back to meet his brother's look. Sympathy flickered upon his countenance again, and Boromir swallowed.

 _No. I have deluded myself about this entire matter for far too long. It is time I faced things—courageously, as Faramir would. If I continue to hope for her innocence, and allow my judgement to be clouded, it is not merely a woman's feelings which could be damaged. We face the destruction of all Gondor._

He forced himself to relax the scowl which twisted his face.

"Come; let us do what we must."

* * *

Winter wrapped her arms around her knees. The stone floor was cold and hard, biting into her tailbone as she sat curled up against the wall.

She had been left in the cell for about an hour, she judged. After struggling and flailing from the Houses, she had composed herself somewhat. Her entourage had pulled her firmly along one of Minas Tirith's main thoroughfares, seemingly blind to stares. The shame of being escorted along in the full sight of many was bad enough; looking hysterical would only add to it. So Winter had sniffled her way along, head bowed and teeth gritted to prevent more tears from falling. She had been docile and obedient, eyes averted so she did not have to endure the shame of recognition.

She had also been painfully aware of her flaming hair. No one could possibly mistake her for any other noblewoman in Minas Tirith.

 _At least Badhor will soon know I've been arrested, even if the Steward doesn't notify him,_ she mused wearily. _The rumour mill will get the information back to him in record time._

Now, she was left to her own devices. The holding cell was small and stone, though it did contain a comfortable-ish narrow bed, a chamberpot, a small wooden table and a hard-backed chair. She'd scorned both bed and chair, instead curling up with the solid presence of the wall at her back. Something about making herself small helped alleviate the fear which rushed through her chest.

Thoughts winked in and out of existence in her mind. "What ifs" flickered with the speed of a wind-swept flame. What if Denethor knew about the program. What if he was hunting out Lady Faenil's entire household while she sat there. What if they were all to be executed. What if she never saw her family again. What if she never escaped. What if they also hunted out the rest of the Arda Exchange Program. What if they killed Lachie and James. What if I'm responsible for all of that.

Each thought was a fresh cloak of dread.

The uncertainty grated on her nerves even more than when Howard used to scrape his cutlery on his plate, just to give her goose bumps.

 _Howard. What would you have said about me coming to Middle-earth if you'd known about this? Would you still urge me to come?_

Her hands moved up to cover her face. Her skin was hot and damp. Several fresh tears leaked out as she sat there, cowering beneath her own thoughts.

Worse still was the image of Boromir's icy expression which had imprinted itself on her mind. She could not shake the vision of him standing above her without any of his usual good-humour. He had rarely had cause to look at her with anything but kindness since their first meeting. His glowering rage was unnerving.

 _What can I have done to make him so bloody mad?_

She uncovered her face, hands slipping down to wrap her knees close to her body once more. Her eyes glazed over as she stared at a nondescript dark patch on the stone floor of her cell.

Atop the cacophony of other voices, Winter heard another silent reprimand: _Oh Winter, what have you done this time? You need to be more careful, or you'll spend your whole life dragging yourself out of messes._

 _Yep. Thanks for the memo, Mum._

She began to lose track of the time as she sat on the floor. Her backside had long ago numbed. As her thoughts ran rampant, the odd tear slipped down her pink-and-white, blotchy cheek.

Winter despised tears. They softened her mask, filled it with irritating cracks that let other people see what she was really thinking. She hated what they did to her. She hated what she said and did when she cried, all the things she let slip out. Tears were synonymous with discomfort—weakness.

The door clicked. Winter jumped, hurriedly scrubbing at the tears which still marked her face. She heard the bolts and chains being worked, and a moment later one of the guardsmen's heads appeared around the door. Seeing her sitting like a child upon the floor, he stepped fully into the room and beckoned to someone who remained outside.

Winter's cell suddenly seemed impossibly small as another three guards filed in, followed by Boromir and the man she had guessed to be his brother, Faramir.

 _No tears this time,_ she vowed grimly. Surely she'd spent enough time wallowing like a baby by now.

Seeing Boromir's stony expression only hardened her resolve to remain emotionless in this second meeting. The Steward-prince stood awkwardly in the small space, flanked by the guards. Faramir stood slightly behind him, and Winter couldn't help studying the younger son of Denethor.

 _Pity to have met him like this—I reckon I would've liked him best of the two._

Faramir's eyes rested upon her for a brief moment, taking in her face and form without seeming to observe her like a piece of meat. Rather than feeling angry at having her body scrutinised by him, she found herself wishing she'd made a better first impression.

 _Rather than sitting, snivelling on a cell floor in your Healer's garb, your hair a mess. Right?_

 _Regular ray of sunshine today aren't we?_

Pressing her lips together, Winter grasped hold of that sardonic streak. When she could mock her situation, she could be strong; her wit was her friend as she faced down the Steward-prince and his brother.

Faramir did not spare her long, however. He soon focused upon Boromir, the former's expression strangely concerned. Funny that he, who had never met Lady Faenil, seemed more compassionate than Winter's own friend.

 _Bastard._

She gritted her teeth firmly.

 _Screw you all._

Her eyes lingered in Boromir's, pouring forth all her humiliation at her present situation. If he was going to be as emotionless as a rock, she'd at least scorch him in the process.

 _Insufferable idiot._

The silence grew heavy. The four guards seemed intent on looking anywhere but Winter, staring at the ground near their feet or some empty corner of the room. Faramir was fixated on his brother. Only Boromir watched her, his countenance unreadable.

 _C'mon your_ Lordship _, let's get this over with._

Just as Winter was preparing to shatter the quiet, a bitter quip resting on her lips, Boromir swallowed and spoke.

"Lady Faenil, you are being held and charged for high treason and conspiring with the enemy."

 _Well that's one pick-up line I haven't heard before. Does that usually work on women?_

Winter blinked and attempted to absorb the words through her veil of bitter fury.

 _Treason? Enemy? Which enemy?_

She cleared her throat. Then she realised that Lady Faenil was sitting huddled on the floor in a distinctly Winter-like pose, knees tucked up in a very unladylike way. Her skirt covered her modestly, but it wasn't exactly the best position to be addressing the Steward-prince from.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she tucked her feet underneath her and stood.

 _If I'm going to burn, I'll at least face death standing up._

She cleared her throat again and stared back at Boromir. He still looked down on her—just.

 _But that we can work with._

"Do you have naught to say, milady?" Boromir spat, as Winter brushed off her skirt.

"I have plenty to say," the latter retorted icily, "if I am allowed to speak." She raised an eyebrow.

Boromir frowned, but nodded slightly.

 _Here goes nothing._

"I would like to know precisely what charges are being levelled against me," Winter declared. _If I die in Middle-earth, I'd like to know why._ "I have done nothing to break the laws of Gondor, unless I was gravely mistaken and have given offense unknowingly. How could a mistake be misconstrued as treason and conspiring with the enemy?"

She paused, letting the question ring out. She also felt rather smug, admittedly. Somehow, when anger took hold of her, her tongue and wits only grew sharper. Having reached this place of cold, hard fury, she lacked no eloquence.

 _You've met your match, oh mighty Steward-prince._

Faramir's eyes turned to her at the conclusion of her brief speech, growing more thoughtful. He had far less ability to mask his emotions. Winter preferred that. It made her feel in control, knowing she could read Faramir's mood whilst masking her own.

 _And goodness, you need every advantage you can get in this situation._

"Your protestations are for naught, milady," Boromir replied.

Winter was swift in her reply: "I demand evidence," she said. "I speak truthfully, my Lord; I cannot think of what might have persuaded you that I would work against your esteemed father, the Lord Steward."

The words tasted bitter, but Winter said them with all the grace she could gather. Entirely true? Probably not.

 _But would the Arda Exchange Program really constitute high treason? It's certainly not conspiring with the enemy... if anything, I'd say Calaron's trying to do the opposite..._

As Winter voiced her demand, Boromir clenched his hands angrily. His body grew stiff with fury. Idly, Winter noticed he'd removed the splint she'd set to heal his broken finger.

 _Idiot._

"Faramir?" the Steward-prince said.

Suppressing a smug smile— _it is him!_ —Winter watched as Faramir reached into a small pouch attached to his belt. His graceful hands pulled out a small ornament attached to a silver chain.

A ring.

The One Ring.

Winter's accursed, fake copy of the One Ring that James had smuggled her in the mail.

Possibly the only thing which could be worse than Boromir finding out she wasn't from Middle-earth.

She knew without any kind of reflection that all the colour had drained from her face. Faramir held the Ring by it's chain, letting it dangle before her eyes. His dark brows were low and serious, though his eyes held none of Boromir's fury.

Fortunate, that. The latter looked ready to explode.

"You think—you think this ring is evidence that I am a traitor?" Winter whispered.

"Irrefutable," Boromir snapped.

Winter turned to him. Seeing his unbridled ire began to dissolve her icy façade. She stared at him, eyes wide and searching.

"How? Why?"

"Might you not tell us of that, Lady Faenil?" inquired Faramir. It was the first time he had spoken. So similar to Boromir—but gentler. Almost musical.

"No—I—I mean, I cannot." Winter stumbled over the words. "I suppose it must appear badly, for the writing on it... but it is not real, my Lord—my _Lords_. It is an unhappy coincidence. A copy. Fake." Her heart thudded queerly.

"You deny the accusations?"

Winter's eyes flickered anxiously between the two men. "Yes, my Lord. I—you mean to suggest that I am working for _Sauron?_ "

Everyone in the room stiffened as Winter spoke the name. She winced and shrank back from the scowls.

"That is precisely what we suspect," Boromir replied brusquely. "You possess a trinket bearing the Black Speech. You are not who you have led us to believe, Lady Faenil."

For the briefest second, his expression said what his tongue could not: _"You are not who you told me."_

 _I wish I could deny at least that much._

It felt like her heart was being compressed in her chest. "Not entirely, my Lord. But I am no servant of Mordor." Blue eyes met grey. Winter begged him with that look. "Please, Lord Boromir—" she hesitated, uncertain if he would balk at the familiarity. "I—if you believe me in nothing else, believe me in this. Please."

The flame of fury within him did not disappear, but it faltered for a moment.

Without a word, he bowed his head and retreated from the room, pulling the door to with a clank behind him. The guards remained impassive, but Lord Faramir appeared somewhat bewildered. He glanced from the exit to Lady Faenil several times, before sighing quietly.

"We will return and speak with you on the morrow, milady."

Winter nodded, her lips pressed together to help fight off tears. Goodness, she hated tears.

Faramir glanced behind him to the guards, and issued an order in Sindarin: _"Leave us."_

Dumbfounded, Winter watched as the four other men filed out—the last of them looking with some misgivings at the Second Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien.

"Lady Faenil."

Winter blinked, then remembered herself in a rush. "Lord Faramir." She curtseyed.

Glancing back up, she saw that Faramir smiled slightly. He really was very like his brother in appearance, though a little taller and slimmer than Boromir. His face was less heavy, though no less handsome, and despite his well-muscled form and the sword at his hip, something about him was almost scholarly. He looked at home in his leather jerkin and Ranger's garb, but Winter could easily see him clutching a harp or lute and making it sing, or penning beautiful calligraphy.

Under any other circumstance, Winter thought she would've liked him.

He looked her over a second time, before frowning gently. "All I will say is this: for my brother's sake, I hope you speak truth." Then he bowed, turned, and departed.

As the bolt and chain indicated Winter was once more a prisoner, she pressed her back against the stone wall. Solid. Comforting. Heedless of the rough surface catching at the threads of her Healer's garb, she slid down the wall until she was once more sitting with her knees tucked up close to her.

This time, she made no effort to quench her tears.

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE**

 **Finally at Chapter 18! I apologise again for the time taken in yet another instalment. In the last 2 months I broke my thumb, had to have reconstructive surgery (and couldn't type for a good 2 weeks), have finished my first semester of university for the year, and packed up to move home for the holidays. It's been a busy time but it's finally calming down. I'm hoping to continue the tale more over the next month while I'm on break.**

 **Anyway, I hope this was interesting. I found it rather hard to write, as Winter is not someone who likes showing emotions. However, I like to think that the shock of screwing up this badly kind of unnerved her a little. The situation she's thrown into tosses her back and forth between teary and steely, and she hates that. I have more plans for the future, and this was an awkward kind of transitional chapter I think.**

 **Please give me any feedback you have about characters, plots, anything. I love hearing from you all.**

 **Excited for more reviews!**

 **Have a great evening folks x**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19 - Sauron's Spy**

* * *

"Is there aught you need, brother?"

"Nay, Faramir; merely solitude. I—I am sorry, but you must leave me be."

"Of course."

Boromir nodded curtly to his brother, aching at the look of confusion on Faramir's face, before he retreated to his bedroom and closed the door. The younger of the Steward's sons was left standing forlornly in the centre of their shared sitting room as Boromir withdrew.

As the door's latch clicked home, Boromir's shoulders slumped. He leaned wearily against the door and closed his grey eyes.

 _How could it be?_

He found it impossible to banish from his mind images of Lady Faenil, slumped on the floor of a cell. Her slender, shapely form was crumpled and cowed. Her face was lined with traces of tears—the first sign she had displayed of any kind of emotional hysteria in his company. Her eyes had pleaded with him, and showed betrayal as deep as he felt at discovering she was a fraud.

 _A spy. A spy of Mordor._

His own fragility and pain at the circumstance hurt him further. How had he grown so weak, to be so deeply affected by the betrayal of a woman?

 _Have you not been treated thus by many women before? Have you not seen many a time how the women of the court may lie and connive and speak untruths to garner power? How, then, does Lady Faenil's betrayal affect you so?_

For, the red-headed woman was not the first spy he had apprehended; nor was she the first woman Boromir had known to stretch the truth. He knew the Guard had routed out numerous servants of the enemy since he had become Captain-General. He was informed of this routinely, and his father received Boromir's own reports of the matter with a quiet remark, "That is well they are caught, then." As for the women of the court—well, to a large degree, Boromir had come to expect them to lie on occasion for political and personal reasons, and scarcely batted an eyelid at hearing a tall tale from some noblewoman. It was one of the many reasons he preferred the simplicity of life at the battlefront.

So, why should Lady Faenil's lies be any different?

 _I trusted her. And I cared for her._

Oh, not as a bride, certainly—there was some infatuation there, for the woman was beautiful, stately, and unaffected. Her hair alone distinguished her from the other women of the court, and was a feature he greatly admired. The red of her tresses was interesting, intriguing. The only redheads he had ever encountered were traders from the north, where red hair was still something of a rarity, and few women ventured south to Gondor. Boromir would have classed himself a fool did he not find Lady Faenil of Anfalas to be something of a beauty. However, as he had concluded, she was no one of great import politically, and a poor choice of bride for the Steward-Prince. Not that Boromir had any great desire to wed—he was married to his army, and his long periods spent at the front meant he had little time to court and care for a wife at the present. He would not be expected to wed for some years, and produce an heir then. Thus, by his admittedly feckless calculations, it had seemed no great concern to invest his time in Lady Faenil. She was merely a diversion.

 _A grave error. For now she is dear to you, albeit as a companion, and you are caught. She is a traitor to your people, to mankind, and you fell for her beguiling tricks! Do you truly believe it was merely a coincidence that she secured her place in your company? Why, perhaps she was sent directly to lure you! Ah, what a fool you are._

He clenched his fists as he stood, willing the poisonous thoughts to depart. The truth in them stung. Lady Faenil was a traitor, and he had accepted her tale wholeheartedly. At first, her deception had angered him; now, he felt merely a hollow ache—pain, almost, and hurt at her betrayal. Melancholy at the thought of losing her companionship. The companionship of a spy, indeed! It was fortunate that Boromir was not required to report specifically to Lord Denethor on such matters—Lady Faenil had not secured his father's great interest, and her disappearance from society would mean little to him. The woman's absence could easily be explained as she was held captive and tried. As hurt as he was by discovering the truth of her, he reviled the thought of having to confess to his father that the woman he spent his idle hours with was a spy of Sauron. Never had a spy gained so close a position to the Captain-General.

Boromir willed himself to open his eyes and pushed off his resting place against the door. There was much to be done—Lady Faenil's claims of innocence must be investigated, however unlikely. Her household would be apprehended by his men that afternoon; there was every certainty that if the woman was a spy, her entire staff would be also. He wondered how Lord Lossemen's identity had been exploited in this way; it was no mean feat what Lady Faenil had achieved, playing her part so convincingly.

 _And yet she made an error_ , he thought grimly, as he moved away from the door across his bedchambers. _No spy is infallible—her trinket was her undoing._

Striding towards the simple timber wardrobe which held his belongings, Boromir began to rummage for a clean tunic and breeches. He must move on, push past his gloom. A bath would revive him.

Discovering a spy among the ranks of the Minas Tirith nobility should be unsettling more than saddening, and it was just as well they had found her before she had grown closer to the Steward's family. Lady Faenil—or, at least, the character she enacted—had been a pleasant creature. He liked her for what she had been, but knew that there was little he could do to change circumstance. With the same utilitarian sternness with which he pushed back grief in the midst of battle, Boromir gently pressed back on the torrent of emotions which besieged him.

Lady Faenil was a loss he must accept.

Having selected his clothing, Boromir crossed the room to his bathroom. He must accept the predicament and advance himself. It was not befitting the Captain-General to grieve over the loss of a companion; the world was not a kind place, and the political sphere of the nobility even less so. He began to prepare himself a cold bath with a stern, implacable expression.

He would not let this best him.

Undressing swiftly, Boromir lowered himself into the cool water with barely a grimace. He scrubbed himself clean, doused his dark hair in water, before rising and toweling off. His finger was still tender from the break, but he ignored the pain. The injury merely made him think of Lady Faenil— _those gentle hands—_

 _No._

After he had dressed, Boromir combed his hair and squared his shoulders. Tomorrow, he would have to assess Lady Faenil's claims in earnest. He would face her calmly, without the hot anger of today. However, that afternoon she was not his concern.

Attempting to brush away the cobwebs of his gloomy thoughts, Boromir moved back toward the sitting room he shared with Faramir. Pulling the latch, he found the room glowing softly with early afternoon sunlight. Faramir sat gracefully in an armchair, a large tome resting upon his knees. His dark brows were furrowed as he studied, long fingers flicking idly at the pages.

The younger brother glanced up as Boromir entered. A faint smile ghosted across his face.

"Are you well, brother?"

Boromir nodded curtly, then paused and released a smile. Times were troubling, yet it was rare to have an afternoon with Faramir alone. He had enjoyed many an evening with his brother in a command tent, even when plagued by greater worries than that of a spy— _even a spy I had grown fond of_.

"I am well, brother," Boromir returned, moving to sit beside Faramir. The latter studied him a moment, as if doubting the answer.

Boromir shrugged.

"Lady Faenil's betrayal concerns me, aye; yet there is naught that may be done now. The men will have gone to her residence and be watching for any of her staff who might try and flee. We must wait, leave her in her cell, and approach the matter tomorrow."

Faramir's countenance lightened at his brother's equanimity.

"I am gladdened to see you take such a view of it, Boromir; it pained me greatly to see your grief at Lady Faenil's actions."

"I am still grieved," replied Boromir, slowly. His eyes stared out the room's large window, taking in the green haze of the Pelennor beyond. "I cannot undo that, for Lady Faenil was a pleasant companion. But," he continued, turning to meet Faramir's identical grey gaze, "I must not allow my judgement to be clouded by affection. She was a friend, nothing more—and I must put my duties first. For Gondor."

Faramir gave a faint smile.

"For Gondor."

* * *

 _9_ _th_ _April, 3007_

Every set of footsteps that passed Winter's cell caused her stomach to clench involuntarily. Each time the heavy boots tromped past, her eyes flicked to the door of her prison. Surely they would come for her.

There was no window in her cell, and she had no precise means of telling the time except by the interlude between meals. She had judged that night had fallen when the guards provided her with standard, filling evening fare. Not long after, her body had drifted into a disturbed sleep, plagued by nightmares. Morning was signaled by the arrival of breakfast.

Winter rubbed her shoulder and scowled. Her empty breakfast tray sat upon the table. She'd used some of her pitcher of water to splash her face, and in spite of her restless sleep, she felt very awake—and restive. Abandoning her position curled up on the floor, she paced the width of her cell, five strides each way.

She was calm. Energetic, but calm.

At the very least, a night spent partly awake had allowed Winter to sort through her muddled thoughts. Her tears of the afternoon before had subsided swiftly. Then it had taken but a few hours to wrench the rest of her mind into submission. It would work out. She'd wrangled herself back to a state of assurance with iron intensity. She couldn't afford to be Winter-having-a-slight-meltdown, not today. She was Lady Faenil; or, more specifically, Lady-Faenil-who-had-cried-a-little-yesterday-and-now-had-to-look-perfectly-calm-and-sure-of-her-own-innocence.

 _And in some ways, I am. I know I'm not conspiring with Sauron. Sure, I lied to the Steward... but not in a way that is proven by the Ring._

That was true. Winter pursed her lips. Really, the greatest difficulty now would be how swiftly Badhor could summon Calaron to negotiate Winter's release. And, alongside that, her surprisingly poignant feelings of disappointment to have angered Boromir so. Who knew that she would feel so strongly at losing the Steward-Prince's friendship? For she had seen the hot fury in his eyes, and knew that he would not be one to win back easily.

Winter sighed as she paced another length of the room.

The most troubling part of her predicament was knowing what this would mean for the Arda Exchange Program. Her time in her cell had given her plenty of hours to consider her plight. It was, she was certain, dire.

The evening before, she had wept under the condemning weight of her own mistake. She had wept for the Program, for the knowledge that the stupid Ring trinket might not only cost her her life—an understandably distressing thought—but also that it might mean the endangerment and destruction of the entire Exchange.

It was safe to say that the night before had been one of the most unpleasant of her life.

Perhaps the thought of betraying the Exchange Program felt worse to Winter in that it meant disappointing such a large collection of people.

 _Got boring just disappointing your mum, hey? Wanted to expand your reach?_

She didn't even bother to silence the sardonic voice today. She was too weary to combat its caustic remarks. She knew it was right; there was no talking her way out of the disappointment she knew Badhor, Túiel, Calaron, James, Lachie, the entire Exchange Program staff—and not to mention her family—would feel.

 _Years of running the program, and you're the one to make it close down by betraying it to Lord Denethor? Yes, well done Winter._

So she accepted her own crushing failure with something akin to apathy. She had borne the pain of knowing it was her fault for those hours of darkness. With morning had come cold, weary, clarity. Now, she surveyed the situation with pragmatism.

The Arda Exchange Program would almost certainly be shut down. That fact was certain. Winter brushed off the deep shame she felt at being its cause, and continued on down the path of her thoughts as she paced the cell. However, she knew that her execution was highly unlikely. Badhor or Calaron would intercede on her behalf. The Program _must_ possess some form of insurance evidence against this kind of exposure—surely. Winter knew that they would not simply abandon her. Part of her wished they would, that she alone might feel the weight of her own actions.

 _Still,_ she mused blearily, as she completed another lap of the small room, _I know that one of them will be questioned soon and my innocence will be proved. What a shame it must come at the expense of the Program!_

Tired of pacing, Winter flopped down upon the mattress.

 _If they would just come get me soon! Gosh, no wonder people start scratching things into the walls when they're locked in prison. Carving "Winter waz here 3k7" would be more interesting than this!_

After what felt like an hour, Winter returned to pace some more. She was beginning to fear they would leave her there until lunchtime, when the bolt on her door moved. Nerves strung tight from waiting, she flinched and shrank back a little.

Upon seeing the face of the guard—who, despite a stern expression, could've been no more than eighteen—Winter relaxed a little.

"You are required, milady," the guard said.

In spite of her plight, the man's concerned expression—clearly he had been informed she was purportedly a spy—made Winter chuckle internally. Did he think she would bewitch him?

 _Well yes, he probably does_ , she realised. _You are supposed to be a servant of Sauron!_

The thought was almost laughable. Thus, it was a little easier than before for Winter to smile at the young man, as she dusted off her skirts.

"Of course," she replied. Hours alone had lent her an equanimity she was surprised at, even in herself.

 _Well things cannot get worse, can they?_

The guard seemed mildly surprised at her easy acquiescence, and stepped into the cell with the door open wide. He carried a small length of rope in his other hand; that, Winter hadn't seen at first.

 _Ah well. They couldn't let me start feeling too dignified, could they._

Thinking of how Howard would scoff at her meekness, Winter held her two hands out in front. The thought of Howard made her want to weep.

"Ah, no, milady—behind."

"Oh." Flushing a little and swatting away thoughts of her jovial older brother, Winter turned her back to the guard and crossed her wrists. Very gently, almost tentatively, he reached out and grasped her crossed wrists in his large hand. With greater care than Winter expected, he tied them together in a rough knot.

"Come."

Turning, Winter followed him out of the cell. Outside waited another three guards; one was as young as her first captor, whereas the other two were grizzled veterans. One of the latter nudged his companion with something Winter might've called an amused grin. Had she been in better spirits, she might have exchanged twinkling looks with the guards—who, it seemed, had put the young man up to confronting "Sauron's spy". In her present state, it was as much as she could do to quirk one corner of her mouth and fall into step behind the two young guards as they led her down the corridor she had traversed the day before.

They soon passed the familiar part of Winter's prison. The corridors were cold stone, with no ornamentation. Any doors leading to other parts of the building were shut tight. After a moment's trudging, Winter's entourage led her to an unremarkable door on the left. The first young guard pulled the latch, and Winter was pressed firmly inside.

 _Well, it's nothing like the interrogation room on CSI..._

The room was as dull and windowless as her cell. The ceiling was not low and oppressive, as Winter might've expected from a prison room— _Well it can't be can it, if all these men are over six feet tall?—_ but it was dreary and depressing. A heavy table made of dark timber stood like a squat tower in the centre of the room. Behind it sat a single man; middle-aged, with the Númenorean dark hair speckled thickly with grey. Behind his left ear he had a lock of snow-white hair. As Winter made note of this, her eyes fell upon a scar which began on the outer part of his cheek and extended beyond his hairline, evidently causing the hair's discolouration. His cheekbones were high and proud, and his deep-set eyes were as steely as the set of his lips. He had a long, narrow nose, and heavy brows set in a stern frown.

All this Winter absorbed in the moment it took for her guards to deposit her inside, nod to the man at the desk, and retreat with a solid _clunk_ of the door's latch.

Winter hesitated. In the shadow of the immense desk, with the equally imposing man behind it, she felt immeasurably small and vulnerable.

 _Now if only I had something genuine to confess, I'd probably do it..._

The man blinked.

"Winter Newhall."

"Yes?"

Her voice responded before her brain. Seconds later, the man's simple statement of her true name hit her like a cosmic force.

"Wai—what?"

"Miss Newhall. That is your name, is it not?"

Gulping, she nodded. Her stomach had plummeted horrifically.

 _Oh dear oh dear oh dear..._

"I am Second-Captain Helchon. I am an Exchange Program plant in the City Guard, and in charge of the prison."

He paused, as if waiting for some form of acknowledgement. Winter merely stood there, vaguely aware her mouth was slightly open but powerless to fix it.

As if seeing her extreme discomfort, Helchon's stony expression relaxed the tiniest amount.

"I'm not going to hurt you, girl."

 _Don't you realise? He's one of you. You're okay._

Desperately swatting back the screaming internal voice crying _panic_ , Winter took a breath.

 _He's one of us._

"I know—sorry." She clenched her fists within her rope bonds and nodded at the man. "I—I guess this is all a bit of a mess." Winter's voice shook, but she forced out a half-sarcastic expression, as if to say, _Oops._

Helchon's frown returned. "It is a significant difficulty, Miss Newhall. You have been arrested by the Captain-General of Gondor for treason. And, if my reports are correct, it is because he found a cheap copy of the One Ring which you carelessly discarded, and had it translated by his brother, Captain Faramir. Is this true, Miss Newhall?"

Gritting her teeth to prevent herself from crumpling in shame, Winter gave a curt nod.

"I see," muttered Helchon, shuffling through some papers on his desk. He glanced back up at her and lowered his voice to a stern growl. "This is no simple predicament, you understand. How did you bring such a trinket to Arda?"

 _Do not cry again. Do not._

"I didn't bring it, sir. A friend found it while we were here and gave it to me. None of us smuggled in anything illegal."

Helchon paused, one eyebrow quirked in bemusement.

"You did not bring it yourself? And you would swear that to Manwë himself?" His eyes pierced her, as if daring her to lie.

"Gweston," Winter replied immediately. "I didn't bring it here. We just found it."

Helchon's eyebrow twitched again. "You do not look like a liar," he said bluntly, after a brief pause.

Winter laughed. A few moments later it seemed like an imprudent choice, for Helchon's expression merely hardened. She followed it with a shrug.

"I am not a liar, sir. No more than anyone else on this Program, pretending to be someone they are not. I swear I didn't bring a One Ring copy into Arda—I wouldn't do something like that."

"Yet you did not bring such a trinket to a superior—to a Program member who might have returned it safely to Caoloth, and thence back to Earth. Do you deny this?"

"No."

"You are still at fault," he concluded, simply. "Your fault is less than it might have been, but you are guilty of carelessness—possibly to the detriment of the Program. Fortunately," he continued, reaching beneath his desk and withdrawing a closed hand, "I have your little error here."

He opened a broad palm to reveal the cheap One Ring copy that had tormented Winter's thoughts over the previous 24 hours.

"I convinced Captain Faramir to turn it over to me," he continued, by way of explanation. "I asserted it might help with preliminary interrogation."

Winter gave a half-hearted smile. "I'm glad there's no real need for interrogation, Second-Captain Helchon."

"Mm." He frowned again. "May I be frank with you, Miss Newhall?"

 _Do I really want that?_

"Of course, sir."

"Your actions have been thoughtless. You are to be extricated from the Program immediately—unless I receive orders to the contrary from Calaron. I have sent him an urgent missive; he was visiting Rohan but he is returning as we speak. You will be interrogated by the Captain-General and Captain Faramir; they will not harm you, I will see to that. You will confess to being a spy of Sauron. I will have you removed back to Caoloth, though to the people of Gondor, Lady Faenil and her spy staff will have been executed. There, you will be disciplined by Calaron—who is to be your escort, in order to prevent any futher mishaps—and transferred back to Earth. Am I understood?" Helchon stared at her again, his eyes cold. Beneath the thick layers of sternness, Winter thought she detected the vaguest hints of a kind-hearted man.

 _Disciplining fools leaves little room for compassion, though,_ she mused wryly.

That much was true. And as Helchon's gaze bore down on her, Winter saw her stay in Arda come to a screeching, embarrassing halt.

"Yeah. I understand," she croaked softly. Her eyes were downcast. To her own burning shame, she knew if she looked up at Helchon's ironlike countenance she would burst into tears.

 _And I will not give him the satisfaction of that._

For a moment she stood in silence, fighting the urge to weep. The whole thing was undoubtedly a ghastly mess, and she had caused it. Still, her mental self-control allowed her to wrangle her thoughts under submission yet again. Oddly enough, the thought of Helchon faking Lady Faenil's death was grimly amusing, and helped to counter her melancholy. With the internal calm she forced into existence came a number of pressing questions.

Braving a glance upward, Winter saw that Helchon was busily writing on some paper on his desk. He had hidden the One Ring again, and was clearly absorbed in a task rather than waste precious moments while she regathered her composure.

"Second-Captain Helchon?"

"Yes?" he growled, finishing scrawling a final line before he met her eyes.

"What happens about the Ring, sir? Surely you cannot expect to merely dispose of it, now that Lords Boromir and Faramir have seen it?"

Helchon scratched his jaw. "Of course I can."

"But sir, it is a crucial plot item," Winter protested, desperation lending her boldness. "Won't it cause problems with the story if they catch me and it gets thrown away? Won't they assume it has been destroyed and then _The_ _Lord of the Rings_ plot will be ruined?"

"Captain-General Boromir has no true knowledge of what your trinket is, aside from the fact that it is of Sauron. When I spoke to him yesterday, he was convinced it was merely a mark of your allegiance, nothing more." He shook his head firmly. "Arda's plotline has been shaken, but all the pieces remain in place. And, in case Captain Faramir takes it into his head to do further research on this particular piece of jewellery, I have already had one of our staff in the archives conveniently 'relocate' the scrolls on Sauron's ring. They have been made extremely difficult to find, and will not be replaced until it is time for Gandalf to discover them. So you see, Miss Newhall, you have no cause for concern."

 _Well, that does make a distinct amount of sense, doesn't it?_

Winter exhaled, somewhat crestfallen. With Helchon's abrupt dismissal had gone her last hopes of redeeming herself—of offering something of value, even in her downfall. As it were, she admitted ruefully, the Program _was_ far better equipped than she, and clearly had a contingency plan to manage even a blunder as large as hers. She would be unceremoniously removed— _fake executed! That's a pretty grim way to end one's career in Arda—_ and her time exploring Middle-earth cut horribly short.

 _Not to mention they'll probably destroy anything I touched in the Houses of Healing, for fear I've bewitched it,_ she sighed internally. _And that hurts second only to disappointing everyone, because I'd finally been making some progress with their medical records. Now all that's lost._

Winter was empty.

She felt like a husk, staring dully at the floor in front of Second-Captain Helchon's desk. It was over. She knew her fate now, knew that she would have to face first Calaron's disappointment—and then the disappointment of her friends and family. She knew she would have to return to her family in disgrace. It stung like alcohol solution on a papercut.

 _Didn't you know you were bound to be a disappointment, yet aga—_

"Miss Newhall?"

"Y—yes?"

"Was there aught else you wished to know?" For the first time in their interview, Helchon's expression ceased to be stern. He almost looked faintly sympathetic.

"N—no. Wait, yes. What's going to happen next?" Winter mumbled.

"I will escort Calaron to your cell when he arrives, so he might speak with you. Your entire household staff has been apprehended already, and are waiting in their cells. They know what has happened and are quite at ease, I assure you," he added, noting the sudden panicked expression on Winter's face. "After Calaron arrives, I expect the Captain-General and Captain Faramir will wish to speak with you. I will brief you first, and we will proceed. After that—I cannot say precisely, but we have plans to remove you and give the impression you were executed, as I expect the Captain-General will order."

"Oh."

Winter chewed her lip numbly.

"You must return to your cell now," Helchon said, without his earlier growl. He rose from his seat behind the desk, but did not move closer. Instead, he turned to the door and called out a strange name—presumably the name of the guard, for a second later the latch was raised and one of the grizzled guards appeared.

"Yes, Second-Captain?"

"Return Lady Faenil to her cell."

"Yes, Second-Captain."

Dazed yet again, Winter allowed herself to be led out of the room without so much as a farewell to Helchon. Thoughts spun like out of control desk chairs across her mind's surface. Her gaze passed blankly across the corridors and she barely noted that she'd been pushed into her cell until she'd been standing there for five minutes.

She'd messed up. Big time.

* * *

 **TRANSLATIONS**

 **Gweston – I promise.**

* * *

 **Welcome back, good friends!**

 **What has it been, like a year since we last updated?! How could that possibly be?!**

 **Well, I suppose it does make sense considering that I can scarcely remember writing the previous chapter for Winter's tale. But here it is. :)**

 **In the interlude since I last wrote, I have gotten halfway through my final year of university/college, gotten engaged, and am now a month out from getting married to my very own Glorfindel (if any of you have read my Elanor fic, you'll understand). Thus it's been a busy period - but it makes me very happy to continue with Winter's tale!**

 **I think most of this chapter is self-explanatory; I definitely felt daunted picking back up here, because Winter is in such a pickle at present! I kept coming back and then being frightened off by how I was supposed to write the subsequent chapter. It's not perfect, but it works, and it continues our story. I hope the following one will be a bit more lively; it involves Calaron's arrival, Boromir, Faramir... and even a bit of Denethor! (That's all the hints I'm giving, but I hope that's enough to get you interested). Winter is in a very large predicament, but I have plans for how to get her out again, and how to make this story really get lively very soon.**

 **I hope you are all well. Thank you for all those who reviewed/DMed me since the last chapter! Your comments and encouragement really got me through. :)**

 **Special shoutout to a certain Avi who's encouragement actually inspired this latest chapter!**

 **Catch you all soon (and I truly mean that)!**

 **Finwe.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20 - Sons of Gondor**

* * *

Far sooner than Winter expected, the bolt turned on her door for a second time that day.

After her shattering interview with Second-Captain Helchon, she had flopped listlessly upon her hard prison bed. It was as if the damning blow had silenced all her internal monologue: she'd messed up, and she was going home. That was all she could process. Even her sarcastic internal companion had given up witty quips as a bad job.

Thus, when a grim-looking prison guard Winter hadn't seen before stepped inside and ordered her to "come", her body obliged without so much as a silent grizzle of complaint.

Her hands were bound with utilitarian efficiency, before she was led back into the corridor once more.

It wasn't until the guard led her through the doorway to Second-Captain Helchon's room that Winter realised her befuddled brain had scarcely noted where they were going. However, the place of her first meeting with the grim prison overseer was different, in the form of an additional two figures: Boromir and Faramir.

 _Great._

Winter moved towards the centre of the room on shuffling feet. Realising she had arrived, the three men behind the desk turned from their quiet conference and surveyed her.

Boromir sat at Helchon's desk, his hands clasped in front of him. Even seated, his broad form cut an imposing figure, strong torso encased in silvery mail and plate sections which contrasted with his inky hair. His beard had been trimmed, his uniform looked immaculate, and his brows were low and heavy over arctic grey eyes. Faramir, standing to his right, looked equally tall and proud. If he was a little less heavily-built, it did him no harm, for Winter could scarcely pick between the two for fairness and physical grace. She'd barely had time to note how alike they looked the day before. The main distinction in their appearances—for it was evident they were close kin in the similarity of their features—was that Faramir wore livery of sage green, where Boromir's was black and silver.

 _Livery of the Rangers,_ her mind mused, dully. A small part of her realised she ought to be elated to have encountered not just Boromir and Denethor, but also the beloved Faramir in her Middle-earth foray. Yet all slivers of joy about the moment were drained by the knowledge the foray was about to come to an abrupt end. Add to that Winter knew she looked a completed and utter mess, and she hated to admit that it bothered her. The fishtail braid Aeglossel had done with her hair the morning before was ratty and unkempt, and she had not spared a second thought to where the pearl pins might have gone. Add to that a crumpled Healer's garb and a goodly amount of grime on her hands and skirt from the cell, and she was quite the ragamuffin.

Rather embarrassed, her gaze moved away from the noble brothers to Helchon. The Second-Captain stood behind Boromir on the other side. Winter's eyes lingered on him a little longer, for in his glance she caught the barest hint of alarm.

 _Wh—oh... Calaron hasn't had a chance to come speak to me yet... he mustn't be here..._

Helchon must've noted the realisation in her glance, for he gave an almost imperceptible nod. She must remember his instructions even though she hadn't been briefed by Calaron yet.

She mustn't screw this up.

Winter bit her lip and glanced back down at the stone floor.

 _No pressure._

Eyes moving back upward, she found the attention of all three men focused upon her. Tall, stern Gondorians, no hint of leniency in their bearing—not even in Helchon's. He, it seemed, had learned to play his part of prison overseer exceptionally well.

After a moment's silence, Boromir cleared his throat roughly.

"Lady Faenil, you are held captive and tried in this fashion, for circumstances and evidence suggest that you are a spy and a traitor, a servant of Sauron," he intoned. Pause, while his eyes drilled into Winter. "Do you deny this?"

The red-haired woman paused a moment here. Her attention darted from Boromir to Helchon. The latter was immovable and unreadable.

 _Well, great._

Feeling rather galled to be left unprepared, Winter merely let her eyes drop to the floor again.

"No."

"You do not deny these accusations?"

"No."

"You admit you are a spy?"

Winter hesitated. She gritted her teeth, eyes boring into the floor.

"Yes." _Tastes like poison._

Expecting Boromir to speak again, Winter finally raised her head. She was met with the unprecedented sight of Lord Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor looking absolutely flabbergasted.

 _He... he believed I was innocent._

The sudden comprehension hit Winter with almost the same impact as being arrested the day before.

 _Boromir believed I was innocent._

Eyes wide, she noted that Faramir, too, wore a look of surprise, though far more muted than his brother's. Only Helchon remained impassive.

Boromir's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Winter's heart plummeted in her chest.

 _He didn't believe I was really a spy! He didn't believe it._

 _No, he didn't. But now, because of this whole mess, you've just admitted you_ are _a spy, and he was wrong about trusting you. Now, because he thinks you really are a traitor, you've broken the trust of the man, and you can leave Arda knowing that he will always think of you as a friend that lied and ended up faithless and false._

 _He'll never know the truth._

Winter began to cry.

Tears flooded up and over, spilling across her cheeks. No sobs came, just liquid, as if the tears had a mind of their own. Yesterday, Faramir had seemed so eager to believe her—even Boromir had seemed as if he hadn't quite wanted to accept the ring's implications. Somehow, the protests she had spilt forth the afternoon before had tasted better, even in the face of her captors' doubt, than this lie, this false admittance of guilt.

Boromir's expression hardened. Several moments of gaping seemed to catch him unawares, and he frowned. Colder than ice, he rose from the chair and turned to the second Arda Exchange Program plant in the room.

"There you have it, Second-Captain Helchon. She has confessed," he growled. Moving from behind the chair, Boromir stormed from the room, long legs carrying him past Winter in three strides.

Faramir stared after him, a pained expression lacing his countenance. He sighed wearily, pushing in the chair Boromir had left askew.

"Thank you, Second-Captain," he said, softly.

Helchon bobbed his head. "It is my pleasure to serve, Captain Faramir."

Faramir nodded in return. "Yet thank you, and my apologise for my brother's abruptness."

"It is of no import, sir."

"Mm," was all Faramir said, one side of his mouth moving upward in a forced smile.

He turned to Winter. For her part, she merely stood there. The tears leaking down her face simply wouldn't stop, nor could she wipe them away with her hands fastened behind her. She looked a wretch, standing alone there before the tall Gondorians, attire askew and eyes almost as red as her hair.

Studying her a moment, Faramir frowned slightly.

"Second-Captain Helchon, might I take the trinket that Lady Faenil carried?"

"Your pardon, sir?"

"Lady Faenil's trinket. That little gold ring. Might I have it?"

Helchon mastered his countenance with great effort, yet Winter saw the distressed reluctance in his movements.

"Of course, Captain Faramir," he managed, reaching into a compartment under the desk and producing the gold ring on its Dale chain.

"Thank you."

Faramir gave a short bow of respect to the other man, before following Boromir's path towards the door. However, his movement did not carry him quite so swiftly, and as he passed her Winter saw clearly the message written in his face.

 _"He thought you were innocent. And you betrayed him."_

* * *

" _Enough_."

Boromir barely gasped the word out. His lungs were searing with pain, desperate for air, and his body in scarcely less discomfort.

Doubled over, the Captain-General rested his hands on his knees, practice sword now resting limply on the ground. Raising his head, he nodded at the swordmaster who stood before him. The man was the fourth Boromir had fought thus far; during each bout they'd dueled until both were exhausted. Then, Boromir had selected another man and begun again.

He knew he'd pay for the exertion in stiff muscles tomorrow, but he scarcely cared.

The swordsmaster bowed to the Captain-General and retreated. Relieved to be done, and revelling in the calm thoughts which came with physical exertion, Boromir sat down on the ground. Wiping sweat from a drenched brow, he sighed.

As soon as he'd left the prison, Boromir had proceeded to the sparring fields without delay. Without thought or hesitation he'd stripped down to his light tunic, secured a practice weapon and proceeded to batter himself in order to forget the look on Lady Faenil's countenance.

 _Accursed woman._

He brushed his hand across his forehead again in pique, and frowned across the parade grounds. In the heat of the afternoon, only one other pair was duelling; the rest of the space was deserted. A small knot of men were clustered around a tree on the edge of the grounds, laughing and chattering among themselves. They knew well that, if they desired to watch the Captain-General unleash his furious might on the swordsmasters, they'd have to do so from a distance. Boromir was notorious for despising overt crowds.

After a moment longer, Boromir dragged himself to his feet. He and his sweat-stained practice sword limped to the opposite side of the parade ground from the watching men, to where he had left the rest of his clothing and equipment beneath a tree. He hesitated a moment, considering whether he ought to simply get dressed and continue with his day. A wry glance down at his tunic—which clung to his body, soaked with sweat—made the decision for him. He slung the rest of his goods, including the mail, over one arm, left the practice sword with a pile of others near the barracks building, and returned to the Citadel.

Each step hurt. His body had paid dearly for the fury he felt at Lady Faenil's betrayal.

 _Ah, foolish man, you still believed in her innocence until the moment she confessed otherwise!_

He gritted his teeth.

Adding to Boromir's intense resentment was the throb of pain which echoed through his finger and hand with every footstep upon the stones. After Faramir had first revealed Lady Faenil's likely origins, he'd unceremoniously removed the splint which strapped the broken finger. It had been just over a week since the injury, and Boromir could hear Ioreth's protestations that he ought not have left it untended, nor attempted to use it. However, mingled among the vivid memories of Ioreth's loquacious soliloquies was Lady Faenil's witty and sometimes biting remarks. Remembering her teasing yet no-nonsense approach to treatment in the Houses provoked him. In pique, he'd cast off the splint.

 _And you shall find yourself putting it back on in a few short hours, now you have worked out your anger with a sword, and greatly regret having exerted it before it was healed._

He grimaced. It was true.

Fortunately, the broken finger was on his left hand, and as a right-handed swordsman, he did not require his left as much when duelling with a sword alone, except when making two-handed strokes. Glancing down at it musingly, he decided the reckless disregard for the broken bones had done no great harm; he'd splint it up himself after a bath.

 _No sense in allowing it to heal badly, deformed, merely to spite a spy. The splint is necessary, whether Lady Faenil spoke true or not._

He nodded resolutely to himself.

Passing through the King's House, Boromir made his way directly to his chambers. Expecting to see Faramir in their apartments, he was surprised to find the room deserted. Somehow, the solitude was almost a relief, as greatly as he enjoyed his brother's company.

Boromir swiftly stowed away his kit before heading for the bathroom once more.

His mind rolled onwards like a large stone upon a hill, desperately moving and trampling any thought which attempted to oppose his present state of mind.

He was steady. Lady Faenil was nothing.

 _Lady Faenil is nothing._

A small part of him stung, for when she was first imprisoned, Lady Faenil had protested fiercely. Despite his words to Faramir, that she must be forgotten and that his true loyalty lay with Gondor, Boromir had longed to believe her.

 _"...I am no servant of Mordor. Please, Lord Boromir—I—if you believe me in nothing else, believe me in this. Please."_

Halfway through filling the bathtub, Boromir lashed out at the water with his fist.

 _Ah, but I did! And yet today she professes she is a spy, without protestation or defence!_

He knelt on the floor. His body rested against the side of the bathtub, his hand trailing in the water.

Oh, but he was weary—not merely in body, but in mind.

 _Lady Faenil, how I wish I had never encountered thee._

* * *

Faramir son of Denethor was a thoughtful soul.

Often had it been spoken of he and Boromir, that the latter was the warrior, and Faramir was a scholar. He bore such assertions without resentment, for he had great pride in his older brother's accomplishments and physical prowess. Boromir had ever been bigger and stronger than he, despite having both come to manhood. He was impulsive, rash, passionate and headstrong. In turn, Faramir knew his brother recognised the qualities he lacked, and looked to the younger son of Denethor for their supplication; studiousness, knowledge of history, diplomacy, patience, and courtly ways.

At times, Faramir could only muse with a wry grin that, had he and Boromir been merged into one, Gondor might have had a king. As it were, he possessed all the knowledge of politics, but lacked the boldness to use it; Boromir was all boldness, and utter disregard for etiquette and subtlety.

They had been for years an inseparable pair. Faramir had lost the timidity of his youth, but he was still quieter than Boromir, and less inclined to speak in large crowds. Both enjoyed to gather with the men, to laugh and to share ale before the fire and forget for a time the troubles of war, yet Faramir would not have protested were someone else to suggest an evening in an armchair, with a treatise on the old Northern Kingdoms.

Necessity had made him a soldier, and he held no illusions that he was either particularly remarkable or poor at his role. He was a Captain, hard-earned, though he knew he would never progress to a standing akin with Boromir. A sharp mind had lent him excellent tactical knowledge on the field. Long years of practice had bestowed upon him great skill with a sword and a bow. He could outshoot Boromir, and at times had been known to outmatch him with the sword also. He had perhaps half an inch of height on his elder brother, though less breadth, but the extra reach had occasionally worked to his advantage. Still, whilst Faramir was one of perhaps two in all of Gondor who might have bested Boromir in a duel, the elder son of Denethor was utterly unstoppable in battle. Faramir was a technical swordsman; Boromir was scarcely less so, but the latter was capable of such fury and endurance in the midst of a concerted skirmish that Faramir knew of no one who could stand against him. Faramir had always lacked that anger and stamina.

No, he was not a soldier. At least, not in his heart, as Boromir was.

 _As Father is._

Faramir pressed his lips together.

He stood upon the edge of the southern side of the sixth tier of the city, among the gardens at the Houses of Healing which whisked gently in the breeze. His eyes were fixed upon the ribbon of road which passed out of the southernmost edge of the Pelennor, and upon the Rammas Echor, which stood some 3 miles distant.

The April day was beautiful, hotter than Faramir might have expected for that time of the year. Early spring rains had left the Pelennor vibrant green bathed in warm sunshine. Flowers had sprouted like a riot of colour, and the air was full of the scent of sweet perfumes and the sound of happy folk, joyful in their existence on such a day.

It was, perhaps, two hours after noon.

Since their midday interview with Lady Faenil, Faramir had wandered—and thought. His mind was deep in a quandary, and extremely troubled by what he had observed.

Foremost among his thoughts was deep concern for his elder brother, for he had never seen Boromir so troubled by the fate of a woman before. And, for his part, Faramir could acknowledge why Boromir had initially become fascinated by Lady Faenil. When she lay cowed on the floor of a prison cell, she was merely a pretty, red-headed woman in the depths of hysteria. Yet the previous day, when she had furiously dismissed Boromir's accusations that she was a spy, Faramir had seen in her a spark which set her whole face alight. Her bearing had become distinctly aristocratic, the tilt of her head and the way her light eyes flashed almost daring anyone to oppose her.

He smiled in quiet amusement as he leaned upon the wall.

 _Ah, yes, dear Boromir, I see how she has ensnared you._

Yet this was only the first of Faramir's concerns, and his smile faded swiftly.

He found himself unable to dismiss a rather distressing thought: _why should a spy protest her own innocence, pleading for Boromir's faith in her, when on the morrow she confesses to her crimes without indecision?_

Something about Lady Faenil's confession unsettled Faramir deeply. Whilst he had ever been one for scholarship and facts of history, Boromir also put immense faith in Faramir's instinct.

 _"I should follow your instinct into a field of orcs, if it led us there, little brother."_

In this, Faramir's instincts were proclaiming boldly that something was amiss. And, knowing Boromir's implicit trust in him, Faramir had said naught of his feelings, nor had he sought his brother's company again that afternoon. After seeing Boromir headed for the practice fields, Faramir had retreated to the gardens, and solitude. Boromir was far too adept at reading his moods and would ascertain without hesitation that Faramir was wrestling with some deep trouble.

 _Nay, 'tis best that I ponder such things alone, and do not speak with Boromir until they are firmly settled in my mind,_ was Faramir's resolution.

 _That is well; yet what do you really believe of Lady Faenil? For there was such desperate innocence and passion in her eyes upon her arrest. Never have I found any man—or woman—capable of telling an untruth with such sincerity. And as she confessed, I felt so little of that same. What, then, is her purpose? Does she desire to bait us? For without a doubt she must be executed—_ the thought made his heart sink for Boromir— _yet what purpose might that serve her, or her master? Why would such a woman alter her tale without provocation or torture?_

Faramir rubbed one eye in vexation. Try as he might, there was naught he could construe that sensibly accounted for Lady Faenil's behaviour.

 _I cannot quite believe my own mind, for I found more truth in her as she protested her innocence than when she today told Boromir she was a spy!_

Added to Faramir's present state of discomfort was a feeling of intense aloneness. Since childhood, Boromir had been his chief confidante. Neither young men carried a large circle of friends, instead possessing many acquaintances and a smaller group of trusted companions. Save Boromir, all of Faramir's dearest friends were still in Ithilien, for the young man had bonded closely with his company. Considering Boromir's relevance to the current predicament, and unable to consult him, Faramir found himself without a soul to speak to. He was reasonably well acquainted with a few of Boromir's officer friends, but most of them were cheery, talkative souls, and at times a little to free in their speech.

 _Nay, they would not do to share such a problem with. Half the city might know of it by nightfall._

In fact, Faramir realised wearily, this was a matter which did not bear speaking of to any other outside the Steward's family, for treason in the Citadel itself could scarcely be bandied about.

 _You might speak to Father about it._

Faramir clung to the thought for a few moments before dismissing it slowly. No. He could not bring such a matter to Denethor. Try as he might to countermand the distance between them, Faramir found his relationship with his father uneasy. Denethor was a good man. In fact, Faramir found himself looking to the Steward with reverence, for in his father he saw many of the qualities he still longed to possess. As oft as Faramir mused to himself that he and Boromir were a complementary pair, he was forced to admit that Denethor was the embodiment of both sons combined. He was wise and held great knowledge, and as a child Faramir had longed to emulate him in the depth of his wisdom. Yet he also was graceful and strong, and even now—in his seventy-seventh year—Denethor possessed the face and noble bearing of a much younger man.

Denethor had never overtly opposed Faramir's scholarly ways, but the latter felt an aura of disapproval from his father in certain moments—his instinct, as Boromir would have put it. He was frequently unsure as to what he might have done to incite Denethor's displeasure.

In everything, Faramir applied himself wholeheartedly, even to those things he did not enjoy, in an effort to earn his father's warm approval. It was rarely received. Boromir, for his part, frequently attempted to cheer his brother up; some five years older, Boromir had better memories of their late mother, Finduilas, and of the change her death had enacted in Denethor.

 _"You remind him of her, little brother," Boromir had remarked, in his blunt fashion. "He does not wish to be reminded of losing her. It is not your fault."_

As he had grown older, Faramir had come to believe Boromir's assertions. For, how often had he been told by the older servants within the King's House that he reminded them of Finduilas? Still, despite the truth in Boromir's remarks, knowing his father's coldness stemmed from a matter beyond Faramir's control stung his gentle soul; even Boromir's "cheering" hurt as much as it helped. He could not begrudge his elder brother a thing, for Boromir had made those lonely childhood years bearable. Nevertheless, in that moment Faramir wished heartily that he had been a little less like Finduilas, and thus a little more pleasing to Denethor son of Ecthelion. He knew well that the his father would most likely produce wise counsel on this matter.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Faramir had no desire to subject himself to Denethor's scrutiny that day.

A large gust of wind swept across the field below, tousling Faramir's hair as he stared mindlessly out at the landscape. Ah yes, it was an early spring, but the wind still held some bite to it. He was glad for the layers beneath his green Ranger's tunic and mail surcoat.

 _You may not wish to bring your troubles to Father, yet what shall you do? You cannot simply allow Lady Faenil and her household to be executed without due cause—your conscious shall not permit you to ignore the feeling that something is amiss._

Hitting the stone buttress of the wall with both palms, Faramir groaned silently. No, he could not merely stand aside and allow events to unfold without greater understanding of the predicament—yet nor could he share his thoughts with Boromir, and risk inciting his brother's hope once more.

Frustrated with the dead end his thoughts had reached, he shoved his hand into the pouch on his belt and produced the ring on the chain that had been Lady Faenil's undoing.

 _What secrets do you hold, you ring of Mordor?_ he mused, puzzled, dangling the ring on the chain before his eyes. Unsurprisingly, the trinket did not reply, and he couldn't help but smile a little at his own foolishness.

The expression faded a moment later, and he stowed the ring away once more. Determined to seek answers before he returned to Boromir's company, Faramir brushed the windblown hair out of his face and turned back towards the Citadel.

This was not a problem that could be solved with a sword, as Boromir might attempt. So, with slightly lighter step, Faramir set out for the Archives of Minas Tirith, and any answers which might be contained within his beloved tomes and scrolls.

* * *

 _10_ _th_ _April, 3007_

By mid-morning the next day, Boromir's spirits had both steadied and grown troubled. After waiting several hours in their apartments, hoping Faramir would reappear, he had shrugged his broad shoulders and sought the company of some of the officers presently in Minas Tirith. An evening spent before the fire—with a generous helping of mead—had done wonders for his state of mind. With just enough drink to give him a pleasant buzz, Boromir's thoughts had stilled and he had enjoyed the boisterous talk and laughter.

The following morning he had woken with a largely similar attitude; somehow, a night of pushing Lady Faenil from his thoughts had kept her firmly out of reach. He was set on his resolution to forget the woman now. His hand had been re-splinted, and he had firmly decided the company of his men was all he ever needed in the way of cheery, honest companionship.

 _No woman, even as a friend,_ he vowed.

However, despite this mental placidity, Boromir's fears were gently aroused by the fact that Faramir had still made no appearance—and his bed had not been slept in.

He had no true qualms about his brother's welfare; he was, after all, ensconced safely in Minas Tirith, Tower of the Guard. No serious harm could befall Faramir whilst he was within the walls of the city. However, Boromir knew Faramir tended to feel things deeply and possessed something of a tendency to brood. So, curiosity and concern mingled, Boromir set out in search of his brother two hours before noon.

Considering the beauty of the day, Boromir set out for the gardens surrounding the King's House. They were flocked with people enjoying the sunshine, but contained no sign of Faramir's characteristic form.

Boromir's second guess was dead on target.

Faramir was predictable. Were he not in Ithilien with his men, he would be found either wandering amidst as much greenery as he could find—or with his nose buried in a scroll. It took a mere ten minutes of searching the city's Archives, beneath the Citadel, before Boromir discovered his brother tucked away in an alcove.

The younger son of Denethor blinked sleepily as Boromir approached.

"Good morning, brother," Boromir chuckled, noting Faramir's dishevelled appearance and the extensive spread of pages before him.

"What time is it?" mumbled the latter, hurriedly scuffling through a few piles and attempting to restore it to some semblance of order.

"A quarter past eleven."

"Ahh," Faramir sighed, in understanding. He gave a wry grin as he rubbed his face. "Time passes swiftly in the Archives, and there is no manner of telling the hour save for the old clock, and it is round the corner there."

He reached upward a pair of long arms and stretched.

Boromir quirked an eyebrow.

 _Time passes swiftly in the Archives indeed_ , he snorted, thinking of the many tedious hours he'd spent there in their youth as Faramir hungrily devoured old poems and tales.

As if reading his disbelief, the younger man laughed and rose.

"Sorry, brother; we may depart now if you like, for I know the Archives hardly please you," he smiled.

Boromir paused. "Rarely have I seen you so eager to depart your work, Faramir, even if I have come to announce that it is almost noon and you have been at work all night," he replied, slowly.

Faramir glanced down guiltily.

"Ah, but I have guessed aright," chuckled Boromir, giving him a playful jab on the arm. "What plagues you, brother, that you so willingly discard your work?"

"Not discard," Faramir protested. "I merely meant to leave it here—Tegilbor knows this is my workspace and shall not disturb it. I will return ere we have eaten together and I have taken a short rest." He smiled—too cheerfully.

Boromir snorted indignantly and proceeded to drag a chair over from a nearby table. He pulled it up to Faramir's workspace and seated himself firmly.

"Now, brother, shall you tell me of your research?"

Faramir's mouth dropped a little. To his credit, he regained composure speedily, but still fixed Boromir with a look of utter amazement as he took his own chair.

"That is a string of words I never thought to hear come from the mouth of the Captain-General of Gondor," he half-laughed. "What stirs this interest, Boromir?"

Boromir gave him a dry look. "The feeling that you are only eager to abandon your study because you are hiding something from me, and I refuse to prolong such a deception. Come, Faramir—show me what you have found."

Faramir threw up his hands in exasperation. "Nothing, that is what plagues me, Boromir. Nothing at all! I cannot find aught to aid us." The forced smile he had worn was replaced with consternation. He shuffled through some sheets and pushed a few tomes to one side.

"What did you expect to find? Rarely have I ever found anything worth remembering in this forsaken pl—"

"Oh, Boromir," sighed Faramir, with the air of one aggrieved. "Nay, now is not the moment to explain to you your errors. May I be frank?"

He paused a moment, before noting Boromir's countenance, which clearly read, _"If you are not frank, I shall burn this entire room full of tinder to the ground."_

"Forgive me. I must ask you this. Did anything appear amiss about Lady Faenil's confession yesterday?"

Boromir's frame tensed as Faramir's query touched the raw nerve he had been attempting to ignore—his own foolishness and mistakes about the false noblewoman.

He shrugged carelessly. "It seemed a swift confession, one I had not expected being somewhat acquainted with Lady Faenil, but I have seen it's like before. Why do you ask, Faramir? Do you feel as if she might still be innocent?" His voice rose with eager intensity as he spoke.

Faramir held up a pair of steadying hands. "Do not rush, Boromir. I dare not say I would doubt her confession, yet something does seem amiss. She was—she was sincere, passionate, and rather convincing yesterday—I mean, the day before yesterday—when she begged you to listen. Yesterday... she was quiet. Reserved. Sullen, almost, as if she resented being made to confess. Could I believe anything different of that ring she carried, this ring—" He produced it from beneath some papers "—I should have firmly believed she was innocent. This is the Black Speech, of that I have no doubt. What it says, I do not know. That bothers me greatly, for I have searched in vain for any scholarship on such an object, and found nothing—nothing that might conclusively damn or vindicate Lady Faenil. This troubles me, for I should like to know without doubt that she is either innocent or guilty, rather than risk punishing a woman and her staff who do not deserve it."

"Her staff have confessed also, though less explicitly than Lady Faenil," Boromir put in, frowning heavily as he mulled over Faramir's words.

"Oh?"

"They merely admitted to aiding the Lady in her tasks, though they all denied knowing aught of what that involved in precise terms."

"Which is plausible, indeed," Faramir nodded. "A spy such as she would never tell her staff the extent of her plans."

"Nay, though one other thing perturbs me—her staff are without a doubt Gondorian. Their accents are far too good, their mannerisms, their appearance. They may be spies, as she is, but aside from several guards, who look like they have some Rohirric blood, I would swear on my life that her _byrath_ , housekeeper and most of the other female staff are Gondorian-born."

Faramir received this silently.

"Rather unpleasant to consider how our own may be corrupted in this fashion, isn't it," he said, softly.

"Mmm."

For a few minutes, the pair did not speak. Faramir stared blankly at the table which contained his notes, whilst Boromir's eyes scanned the Archives.

It was like an enormous library, filled with books and scrolls and loose sheets. Tegilbor, the Archives' keeper, retained them all in order—difficult to believe, considering the mess Faramir had made on his table. However, unlike the other libraries of the city, this was kept exclusively for the use of the Steward and any he might permit. Faramir adored it, and Denethor himself had often spent many hours secluded in its recesses. The other who enjoyed long forays in the place was Mithrandir, the wizard, who had oft visited Minas Tirith and formed something of a friendship with Faramir. Boromir found Mithrandir rather vexing, for he always spoke in riddles and circles. The Steward-Prince preferred plain speech, and made this known—a fact which seemed to amuse Mithrandir extensively.

Regardless, however, Boromir was baffled as to how the Archives had failed to yield any secrets to Faramir. His brother was a notable scholar, despite his many hours spent at war in Ithilien.

 _If Faramir cannot discover aught of what Lady Faenil's true intent might have been, none can, save perhaps Father—or Mithrandir._

Boromir shook his head, trying—unsuccessfully—to clear it of Lady Faenil.

"Are you well, brother?" Faramir inquired, snapping out of his reverie.

"Yes," Boromir muttered. "Merely uncertain about the entire predicament. I daresay if you cannot find anything, none can."

Faramir shrugged. "Father, might. Or Mithrandir."

Boromir smiled slightly, thinking how closely the statement mirrored his own thoughts.

"Well, I suppose you have about as much inclination as I to involve Father in this matter," Boromir decided, "and Mithrandir is not at our beck and call. I trust your work, Faramir, knowing well the limitations of my own."

The smile on his brother's face was payment over and again for the compliment. And, as Boromir returned the gesture, it pulled away a little of the stinging pain of his own stupidity regarding Lady Faenil, replaced by the warmth of his brother's companionship.

"And," he added, with some reluctance, but knowing the worth of the words to Faramir, "I am grateful that you attempted to discover some conclusion concerning Lady Faenil. I fear I have been a mighty fool, entertaining her, yet there is naught that may be done about that now. We must trust the evidence, and her own confession, and do as we must."

 _Ah, but those words are difficult to utter._

Faramir nodded, seeming to understand Boromir did not wish to discuss the matter further. "Aye. I had hoped to allay my own fears concerning her peculiar confession, but I believe you are right. I do not like to be bested in a contest of knowledge, yet I fear this is not a battle I may win." He plucked the ring from the table and let it swing by its chain.

"A pretty thing, isn't it?" Boromir put in, giving it a flick with one of his fingers.

"Indeed it is."

Both the men jumped in their seats at the unfamiliar voice.

Turning—for his back was to the newcomer—Boromir saw Denethor standing a few feet from the table. He wore no mail or cloak today, merely an embroidered tunic, black leather jerkin and soft-soled shoes, explaining his quiet entrance. Still, the Steward of Gondor appeared regal as he stood before his sons, heavy brows accentuated by the shadows in the Archives.

Boromir and Faramir rose as one and bowed to their Father, murmuring phrases of obeisance.

Denethor smiled. He appeared to be in an excellent mood, for the expression encompassed both sons. He was well-groomed and looked lithe and vigorous, a truly noble figure to lead Gondor. Boromir could not help but hope he appeared as well-knitted and proud by he attained his father's years.

"You are studying, Boromir?" the Steward inquired, gesturing for them to sit once more and leaning over to assess Faramir's paperwork.

"Nay, Father; Faramir is. I am here to discover what he is researching, and also to coax him outdoors to find food and drink."

Denethor nodded absently, his sharp eyes taking in the papers.

"Mordor, Faramir?"

The one addressed cleared his throat. Boromir ached to see his brother so uneasy around their father, with the former so desperately eager to please.

"Yes, Father." Faramir gave a slight shrug, as if seeing no point in concealing anything. "Boromir apprehended a spy the other day; I was merely attempting to discover any further information that might aid in determining her fate."

"Her fate? A woman?" Denethor's attention snapped to Boromir.

"Yes," the latter admitted gruffly.

"Does this relate to the arrest of the red-headed woman, your latest conquest, Boromir?"

Boromir ground his teeth, as Faramir replied softly, "Lady Faenil, Father. That is she."

Denethor frowned for the first time in the conversation.

"Well," he mused, after a moment, "'tis best she is caught, I suppose, considering your attachment to her, Boromir. After all, we hosted her for dinner one eve, and I am gladdened to hear she has been caught. What is the charge against her?"

"Treason. She is a spy of the Enemy."

Denethor smiled knowingly, and glanced at Faramir. "Which accounts for Faramir's great interest in Sauron, I suppose. A reasonable course of action."

Faramir seemed to grow a little under even that limited praise.

"You have done well to catch her, Boromir," the Steward continued, nodding and stepping back from the table. "Was there anything of interest to be found in this, Faramir?"

He shook his head. "Nay, father. Nothing which explains Lady Faenil's task, or this." He reached out and held up the ring, which he had dropped on the table at Denethor's sudden entrance.

"Oh?"

The Steward reached out and took it in his hand, eyes moving interestedly across the ring and its chain.

"And Lady Faenil carried this?"

"Yes. It is by this Ring we know she owes her allegiance to the Enemy, for the Black Speech is inscribed about its ring," Faramir explained, his voice eager. "However, I could find nothing more in the Archives related to the Speech or to this ring."

Denethor's eyes glinted and he chuckled. "What the Archives know of the Dark Lord of Mordor is but a thimbleful compared to an ocean—any information you might find to help you shall not be contained within books and scrolls."

 _What is this of which he speaks?_ wondered Boromir, rather amazed and taken aback by the knowing flash in Denethor's eye. _Probably of past wars, and of knowledge gained through consultation with Mithrandir, and other scholars, he_ decided. However, he had no more time to wonder at his father's veiled remarks, for Denethor spoke.

"I shall keep this," he stated, raising the ring in his hand. His face shifted a little, cold and hard and determined—almost desperate. "A reminder of victory over the Enemy, of keeping Mordor's forces at bay."

"And so we shall continue to do," Boromir replied, smiling and rising.

"By all means, keep it, Father," was Faramir's response. "Though might I call upon you to borrow it in the future, perhaps, should I discover anything in the Archives which may lead me to study it further?"

"Yes, Faramir, though I doubt there is anything that shall help you—at least naught that you shall discover in your lifetime. The Archives are vast," Denethor said, a little coldly. He paused, before nodding again. "I shall depart. Enjoy your study, and your luncheon." With that, the Steward retreated, tall and straight as he marched out of the Archives, Lady Faenil's ring in his right hand.

Boromir glanced at his brother, who had deflated at Denethor's coolness.

"Come now, Faramir," Boromir said, with a bracing smile. "You must be hungry and exhausted. Let us seek some filling fare, and perhaps venture forth in the city to forget the troubles of these days."

Faramir stared numbly at his pile of papers. After a moment, he turned to Boromir sadly.

"I am sorry that I could not help Lady Faenil—or you, brother. I know she meant a great deal to you, and it grieves me that she was not the woman you believed her to be. You may be brave, stern, act as if it doesn't plague you, yet I know it does. Let us speak no more of it, for I know that is your wish—but know also that I tried, ere the end, and I wish it had been different."

Boromir swallowed hard.

 _He has an uncanny propensity to speak the words which touch the soul—and sometimes the very ones I do not wish to hear, but that need to be spoken._

Gravelly and low, "Thank you, Faramir."

The younger man reached out and squeezed Boromir's forearm, before turning towards the door to the Archives. A moment later, Boromir followed him. Frustrated, he was, at himself and at the world; hurt, a little, by Lady Faenil's betrayal; embarrassed, too, but mostly eager to toss aside the whole thing, and forget the red-haired woman.

 _And let that be the end of it._

* * *

 **AUTHORS NOTE**

 **Hello everyone!**

 **Back again, and in the time frame I stipulated. What an amazing shock!**

 **I'm just writing this to give some context and a couple of points on some parts of the story, lest people jump on me about them. First...**

 **Reference to the clock in the Archives:** **I actually checked this multiple times before I wrote it in. Just a small thing, but I have it on good authority that the Shire had clocks (refer to the letter left by the Dwarves for Bilbo on the clock in the Hobbit) and also the "noon-bell" which rang in Rivendell. So these two groups had clocks, seems logical that Gondor would too.**

 **Denethor:** **Some feedback I received on an earlier chapter said they didn't like my angry, spidery portrayal of Denethor. In this segment I tried to make him a little more relatable, as well as giving him some context through a bit of Faramir internal monologuing. (Side note: yes I realise most of this chapter wasn't from Winter POV but I'm quite proud of it haha). Anyhow, tried to amend Denethor's personality a bit. The other key thing here is the use of the Palantír. My research also showed me that Denethor was expected (and guessed) to have started using the Palantír in like 2988-2998 (sometime when the boys were young). So by 3007 almost everyone agrees he would've already been using it. Thus, his little reference at the end about knowledge of Sauron coming not from books and scrolls, refers to the Palantiír. Boromir missed it but I doubt you guys did! haha.**

 **Anyway they were the main things I wished to address, just in case you all had questions about it and I figured I'd let you know I had logical reasoning behind it all.**

 **I know this was a long one and it didn't have a whole lot of action (just discussions), but this is an important setting up chapter. From here on in, things heat up significantly. This is kind of setting us up at the top of a waterfall and we're about to go on the wild ride to the bottom.**

 **Because, you know, don't tell me ya'll didn't notice that DENETHOR LITERALLY TOOK THE FAKE ONE RING FROM BOROMIR AND FARAMIR. Messy things ahead. Just a heads up. :P**

 **Anyway I hope you all enjoyed! Thanks for being faithful readers and Chapter 21 won't be far away either because I'm on a rolllll!**

 **Lots of love,**

 **Finwe.**


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